


Stale Air

by SyntheticRevenge



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (Sort of. Like. Co-Archivists Jon and Sasha.), Alternate Universe - No Magnus Institute, Archivist Sasha James, Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Gender Dysphoria, Mental Instability, Messy Bitch Jon, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Drug Addiction, Podcaster AU, Statement Addiction, The entities are still here even tho there's no Institute fair warning, Trans Martin Blackwood, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Web Avatar Martin Blackwood, i'm kind of glad 'podcaster AU' isn't a tag but
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:08:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 35,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24595783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SyntheticRevenge/pseuds/SyntheticRevenge
Summary: “Okay, I won’t lie to you, mate, you have to understand, first and foremost, that it is a bad podcast,” Tim says, leaning on the bar and taking a long drink from his pint, staring through Martin. “Like abysmal. He doesn’t know how to talk to people and it’s a trainwreck. Also the audio quality is...like...it’s like a five year old playing with the voice memo app. I could probably help him fix it, but like, I don’t...want to. I have no idea why he got picked up. I’ve asked my boss about fifteen fucking times and he refuses to explain. So now it’s my job to make people actually listen to it.”(Jon has a supernatural podcast on the Magnus Network, and Martin definitely, definitely knows how to edit audio, and definitely was not lying on his resume)
Relationships: Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 215
Kudos: 363





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to mess around with an AU where the Institute doesn't exist, and somehow this is what I landed on. I'm having a lot of fun writing it, here's hoping it goes somewhere good and that y'all enjoy it too. Stay tuned for when I inevitably write ad copy about the avatars/entities.

“Okay, I won’t lie to you, mate, you have to understand, first and foremost, that it is a _bad_ podcast,” Tim says, leaning on the bar and taking a long drink from his pint, staring through Martin. “Like abysmal. He doesn’t know how to talk to people and it’s a trainwreck. Also the audio quality is...like...it’s like a five year old playing with the voice memo app. I could probably help him fix it, but like, I don’t... _want_ to. I have no idea why he got picked up. I’ve asked my boss about fifteen fucking times and he _refuses_ to explain. So now it’s my job to make people actually listen to it.”

“You’re really selling it,” Martin says, softly, lip twitching, and Tim snorts loudly and drains his pint.

“Yeah, well, that’s where you come in, mate!” Tim says, clapping Martin on the back harder than he was expecting. “Again, I _could_ produce and edit it, but I find Jon to be a bit of an unbearable prick about 80% of the time, so I’d really rather pay you to do it.”

“So I would...find guests and organize them and…?” Martin says, shrugging and trailing off.

“Yep!” Tim says. “You’re gonna meet _all sorts_ of freaks. I’m kind of jealous. I mean, I’m not. But I kind of am. You sure you don’t want a drink? I really don’t recommend being sober while meeting Jon for the first time.”

“I’m alright, thanks,” Martin says, blushing a little. “What if--what if he doesn’t like me?”

Tim waves his hand dismissively. “Tough fucking luck, _I_ like you, and I own him. I mean, _I_ don’t, but it’s not like Bouchard’s gonna get involved in this. You do have experience, right?”

“Yeah,” Martin lies through his teeth, trying to get his voice not to pitch up and nodding enthusiastically. “Of course.”

“Great,” Tim says.

“I can send you links if you--” Martin starts, cursing himself for saying that because, well, he _can’t_ , but thankfully Tim just shakes his head and picks up his second pint.

“Nah, I trust you,” he says. “You look like the kind of guy who edits podcasts.”

Martin’s pretty sure that’s an insult, but he doesn’t know for sure, and also can’t come up with a response, so he sputters for a moment. “Th-thanks?”

Tim laughs. “Sorry, unnecessarily cruel, I know. God, where the fuck is he? He’s usually freakishly punctual. Maybe he’s died. That would probably be too much to hope, though.”

“He’s really that bad?” Martin says, anxiety building and pounding in his chest at the thought of not only doing a job he has no idea how to do, but doing it for a totally nightmarish person.

“He’s... _interesting_ ,” Tim says, shrugging and rolling his eyes. “Sasha likes him, but Sasha likes basically everyone.”

“Sasha?” Martin asks.

“Oh. Uh, my friend, she has another podcast on the network. It’s a lot like Jon’s, honestly, except with like...journalistic merit and it’s about--like--objects, specifically? You should listen to it. I produce that one.”

“Okay,” Martin says, brightly, still trying to swallow the fear down. “Actually, you know, I’m gonna get a drink.”

“That’s the spirit, mate! You want a pint or shots? I won’t judge you if you want shots, don’t worry,” Tim says, winking at Martin, who blushes. 

“Yeah, you know, I’ll do shots,” Martin says, trying to shrug casually, as if he’s any good at drinking, and as if he’s even supposed to be doing it. Drinking with his meds puts him into a dissociative state for days after, but that would probably be better than his current anxiety situation.

“ _Fuck_ yes, mate,” Tim says, ordering them both tequila shots, and cheersing Martin with another wink before they slam them back, Martin trying desperately not to choke.

“Is that him?” Martin manages, pointing at the door, where a man managing to wear that one Joy Division shirt in an uncool way just walked in.

“Uuuuunfortunately,” Tim sighs. He waves his arm above his head. “Hi, Jon!”

Jon sees them and heads over. He’s striking, but odd-looking, with sharp, hungry eyes and an overall gaunt look. “Tim,” he says, with a barely perceptible nod. Tim widens his eyes at Martin over Jon’s head and mouths ‘see what I mean?’ to which Martin tries to suppress a very undignified giggle.

“Hi, I’m Martin Blackwood, I’m--” Martin starts, putting his hand out. Jon doesn’t take it, and it sort of stops Martin in his tracks. “Uh, I’m gonna...be your new…”

“Producer?” Jon asks, finishing Martin’s sentence for him with a raised eyebrow. “Yes. I know.” He turns back to Tim. “I really don’t get a say?”

“Martin’s nice and he’s good at what he does,” Tim says, strikingly confidently considering he actually has no idea. “Don’t be a child, Jon.”

“It’s nice to meet you?” Martin offers, and Jon turns his attention back to him and scoffs.

“You don’t have to lie,” Jon says. He orders a double vodka, which startles Martin, and proceeds to drain it without flinching. Martin finds this very impressive despite himself.

“Why were you late?” Tim asks. “You alright?”

“There was a huge fucking spider in my flat,” Jon says, simply, holding his glass up for a refill. Martin also anxiously pushes his shotglass forward for a refill, suddenly desperate for it. He has to drown out the growing warmth he’s feeling up his neck about being this close to...fuck, he has a crush already, this _always_ happens.

“O...kay...great,” Tim says. “Well…”

“Do you have any experience with the supernatural?” Jon asks, fixing his sharp eyes on Martin again as Martin nervously takes his second shot. 

He chokes on “Maybe?”

“Maybe?” Jon repeats, incredulously. “What sort of a fucking answer is _maybe_? Tim, have you had a supernatural experience?”

“No,” Tim says, quickly and flatly, in a way that does not invite any follow-up. 

“See? Definitive answer,” Jon says, pointing back over his shoulder at Tim. 

“Uh, fine, then, no, I guess,” Martin says, shrugging. 

“Alright. Good,” Jon says. “I didn’t want to have to immediately discredit someone I’m going to be working with.”

“Jon’s a skeptic, if you didn’t catch that,” Tim says, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “He takes a _lot_ of pleasure in telling his guests why they’re wrong. Frequently he informs them they need mental health treatment. It goes over _great_.”

“I’m trying to _help_ them,” Jon snaps. “And I do research after, and it always discredits them. That’s another thing, are you good at research?”

“Uh...yeah,” Martin says, nodding fervently, and that much is at least true. He had to do a _lot_ of research to find out how to present himself as a worthwhile freelancer, especially in fields he has literally no experience in.

“Good.”

“Great, so you’re set? You’re okay with this?” Tim asks, hopefully. 

“We’ll see,” Jon says. “I have an interview tomorrow, can you--”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Martin says. “When?”

“I don’t know. I said she could come by whenever.” Jon downs his second drink and rolls his shoulders. “The spider’s still in my fucking flat, I have to deal with it.”

“Do you want...help…?” Martin asks. “I don’t mind spiders, I…” He shrugs, helplessly. “If it’s really that bad?”

“No, it’s my burden to bear,” Jon says, sighing. “I’ll text you if she tells me when she’s coming, if not just...show up at noon, I guess?”

“Do you have my number?”

“Tim’ll give it to me,” Jon says, waving his hand dismissively, and Tim makes an _I will?_ face, and then rolls his eyes and drops it.

Jon turns to leave, but Martin nervously forces out a “Wait,” and he whirls back around, quickly, nearly knocking himself off balance. 

“Yes?” Jon asks, tone impatient. 

“I have to ask, why...why is it called--”

“It’s a joke,” Jon sighs, like he’s sick of explaining it. “Like Fresh Air, the NPR show, except it’s about supernatural things, dead things, sometimes, so. Stale Air.”

“Oh,” Martin says. “Alright…?”

Jon sighs again, more heavily this time, and leaves, shoving his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunched. Tim watches him and barely suppresses laughter until he’s out the door.

“Wow!” Tim more or less shouts. “Yeah, fucking peak form for ya there!”

“How _old_ is he? Who--who _listens_ to Fresh Air?” Martin asks, incredulously. “That’s like for fifty-year-olds who just discovered podcasts for the first time.”

Tim snorts and then visibly tries to get himself under control. “Also, notice how he didn’t even _offer_ to pay for his own drinks. Good ol’ Jon. You still want the job?”

“Yeah,” Martin says, shrugging.

“You _must_ be desperate.”

“Just...passionate…?”

“Well, good on you. Good luck. Want another drink? I think you deserve one.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! Thank you for all your positive feedback, it really means a lot <3   
> This chapter's maybe sort of rough, but I think I know what I'm doing better now, so bear with me lol, and I hope you continue to enjoy.

Martin’s finally awake and semi-conscious, after sleeping through three different alarms, and he’s barely halfway through his tea, so really, he doesn’t even want to  _ think _ about all of the god-tier bullshitting he’s going to have to do in approximately an hour. 

He doesn’t have time to shower, also, which is another issue, and he passed out in his binder last night, so his whole chest aches and he can barely breathe. This is what he deserves for trying to be a Cool Fun Guy for once in his life. He forgot about the anxiety-alcohol-worse anxiety spiral he got  _ way _ too familiar with after he dropped out of school, and by the time he remembered, Tim was already somewhere between texting his podcast friend (Sasha?) that she should come join them (“and then--and then I’m going to be a fucking  _ man _ and tell her I  _ like her _ , Martin--well, I mean, no, I can’t say it like that, that makes me sound twelve”) and doing ABBA karaoke.

It was...fun? Martin doesn’t really know. He hasn’t properly been out with a friendly person since...well...ever. He knows Tim isn’t  _ actually _ his friend, just a work person, and also someone he’s lying to pretty aggressively, but it’s nice to think about anyway. 

He’s suffering for it, though. He’s in such a sleep-deprived, dissociated, hungover fog that when he gets a text notification, he nearly hurls his phone across the room. Text from an unknown number. An address, and  _ I don’t know when she’s coming, but we should talk regardless, still come at noon.  _ Perfect punctuation and capitalization, like some kind of old man or sociopath or both.

Jon. Right. Jon, his new, weird, off-putting, hot...boss? Martin’s unclear how the hierarchy works here, but, oh well. It’s more fun to fantasize if he calls Jon his boss. 

He doesn’t feel entirely in control of his body, and his fingers type out and send  _ sounds good b there soon:)  _ without his input.  _ Yeah, Blackwood, nice going, that is  _ definitely _ how professional people in their late twenties text. _

He gets dressed, as quirky-cool-casual as he can manage, because this is  _ podcasting _ and that’s where the quirky-cool-casual guys gravitate, right? There is nothing more gender affirming than being a guy who can say he works on a podcast. 

He plugs Jon’s address into his maps app and finds that it’s only about a fifteen minute walk from his flat, which is good, considering that it’s five minutes to noon. Truly, he’s making a fantastic impression. He  _ is _ always late (because he’s a bad son, yes, yes, he knows). 

The directions keep falling out of his mind the second he gets confident enough to turn his screen off, so he ends up staring at it the whole time. When he gets there, the front door’s ajar, and he pushes it open, jumping a little at the loud, creepy creak. He’s not sure what else he expected from a place someone like Jon would live.

He walks up to the third floor, and finds Jon, sitting on the floor in the landing with his laptop on his thighs, hair pulled back, furiously typing with a cigarette in his mouth that he looks to be chewing to bits. 

“You’re late,” Jon says, without looking up, slamming the enter key and pulling the cigarette out of his mouth, putting it out on the tile floor, and then flicking it down the stairs.

“Uh, yeah, I’m really sorry about that, is she--she’s not here yet, right? Oh, fuck,” Martin says, dawning horror hitting him. “Is that why you’re in the hall? Because she’s here?”

“What? No,” Jon says, shaking his head. “There’s another fucking spider in my kitchen, I just needed a smoke.”

“Can I make up for being late by dealing with the spider?” Martin asks, voice pitching up in his typical pushover-y ‘I will do anything to avoid conflict’ tone. 

“Hmmmm.” Jon sighs and runs a hand back through his hair. “Fine. But I’d like to talk to you about the interview when you’re done.”

“Yeah, of course,” Martin says, giving Jon a wide, fake, anxious smile and a reflexive, half-hearted thumbs up, which Jon blinks at before turning back to his computer.

Jon’s flat is...Martin’s not sure exactly what he expected, really, but it’s not this. It’s small, and mostly empty. Nothing on the walls, no TV, books neatly stacked on the small nightstand he seems to use as a coffee table. There’s a slightly larger table with two microphones set up as well, and it’s basically the focal point of the room.

The “kitchen”, which is really just a strip of counter, a fridge, a stove, and a sink, is a goddamned mess, however, which is a startling contrast to the rest of the place. Dishes stacked in the sink and on the counter next to it, and even a bowl of dried and hardened ramen. 

“Great,” Martin mutters, then, sort of to himself, sort of to the room, “Alright, Mr. Spider, where are you?”

He stands there for a moment, scanning the walls and counter, and then he sees it. It’s not even that big, really, just one of the harmless little ones. Martin smiles in its direction. “Not very scary, are you?” he says, reaching for a glass left in the sink and a small piece of paper towel. He manages to coax the spider in, and takes it back out into the hall.

Jon doesn’t look up. “You got it?” he asks.

“Yeah, right here,” Martin says, and Jon looks up and jolts at seeing the spider trying to climb the inside of the glass.

“Why wouldn’t you just  _ kill _ it?” Jon asks, pulling his legs up like he’s trying to recoil from the spider.

“Because it’s...harmless?” Martin says, shrugging. “Spiders aren’t bad! They eat flies, they’re nice.”

“They are-- _ no _ .” Jon shakes his head adamantly. “No, they aren’t.”

“Well, this one is,” Martin says, resolutely. “I’m gonna let it out outside.”

“Just put it on the floor below me,” Jon says, sighing resolutely. “It can terrorize them.”

“Or that, I guess,” Martin says. He goes down the stairs and crouches to let the spider out on the ground, and as he’s standing back up, a woman with short hair and a scar over her right eye nearly slams into him and continues up the stairs without acknowledging or apologizing. So everyone in this building’s sort of a hot asshole. Good to know.

Martin follows her up the stairs, and realizes, cold dread gripping his heart, that she’s stopping in front of Jon’s door. Jon slams his laptop shut and pushes himself to his feet.

“Julia?” he asks.

“You’re Jon?” she responds, and he nods.

“Yes, it’s--truly, thank you for doing this, it’s going to be incredible to have someone--well, someone as high profile as you,” Jon says, and it looks like he’s  _ maybe _ trying to smile? “This is my new producer, Martin.” He points behind Julia, where Martin’s standing, a little paralyzed with anxiety about...well, everything. “Martin, this is Julia Montauk.”

“Wait,” Martin says. “Montauk like--”

“Yeah, like  _ that _ Montauk,” Julia says, sort of smirking. 

“ _ Right _ , so, uh--so you’re coming on to talk about--?” Martin sputters, brain trying to wrap around the fact that Tim said this was a shitty podcast full of random people with overactive imaginations, and yet, somehow, Robert Montauk’s daughter is here.

“My dad,” Julia says. 

“And that’s supernatural?” Martin asks, squinting, a little incredulous.

“Yeah, well, I have to get it out somewhere, and no one fucking listens to you guys.” Julia shrugs. Jon doesn’t even look wounded, just excited, that weird hunger glinting in his eyes again. 

“We appreciate it,” he says, opening the door to his flat behind him and waving her in. Martin follows, and Jon behind him, hissing “Try not to fuck anything up, Martin” into his ear. 

“I’ll do my best,” Martin snaps back, a little more aggressively than he intended, his defensiveness swelling despite the fact that he does literally have no idea what he’s doing and will almost definitely fuck it up.

Jon plugs the microphones on the table into his computer and opens Logic. “Since it’s Martin’s first day, we’re still on a pretty unprofessional setup, I apologize.”

“Don’t worry,” Julia says, laughing, “I want this as unprofessional as possible.”

“Alright,” Jon says. “Let’s start, then. Please, introduce yourself to the listeners.”

“Wait,” Martin says. “You don’t have an intro?”

“What?” Jon asks, clearly irritated, turning to look up at Martin.

“Like...an intro. Like even just ‘welcome to Stale Air, I’m your host Jonathan Sims, and today we’re interviewing Julia Montauk about her father’ or something,” Martin says, shrugging. “You have to have  _ something _ , you can’t just go straight into it, right?”

“You sound like Tim,” Jon sighs. “Fine. Julia, what would you like me to say this is regarding?”

“Uh, why my father did what he did, I guess?” 

“Right. Welcome to Stale Air. I’m Jonathan Sims, and today I’m interviewing Julia Montauk, daughter of famed serial killer Robert Montauk, about her father’s actions and motivations,” Jon says. “Julia, feel free to start.”

Julia speaks for nearly half an hour straight, as if the words are being pulled out of her, and it’s a fucking  _ terrifying _ story. The hearts in jars in the shed, and the encroaching, almost living darkness chasing her. Jon never interjects, never even makes sympathetic noises, just watches and listens.

When she’s done she looks exhausted and relieved all at once. Jon thanks her, ends the recording (ignoring Martin’s half-hearted ‘what about an outro, though’), and offers her tea, which she more-or-less politely refuses. She leaves, quickly, and Jon leans back, exhaling slowly. 

“Wow,” Martin offers, unhelpfully. “That was…”

“Probably just a terrified child’s overactive imagination,” Jon says, but he doesn’t look fully convinced. “You can go, I’ll send you the file to edit.”

“You sure? I can stay if there’s anything--”

“No need, I don’t think you’re adding particularly much being here,” Jon says. 

“You know, that’s sort of unnecessary,” Martin mutters, scratching the back of his neck. “You didn’t give me much of a chance.”

Jon sighs. “Well, if you’d been on time, maybe we could’ve talked about things beforehand.”

“Yes, alright, I’m sorry!” Martin says, throwing his hands up. “I won’t be late again!”

“Send me the final version, I’d like to listen before you put it up.”

“Yeah, will do.”

Martin leaves, sort of relieved that the whole thing’s over. It only gets easier after the first time, right? That was true of his T shots, and sex, and visiting his mum, so it’s probably true of doing a job he’s unqualified for with a man who seemingly hates him. 

When he gets home, he opens the file Jon sent him, starting as early as possible so he can figure out what the hell he’s doing sooner rather than later.

He hits play, listens to Jon trying to start, his own, shitty voice interjecting (oh, the dysphoria of it all)--Jon’s intro--and then, when Julia starts speaking...static. 

Just waves and waves of static.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really should've named this fic Oops All Static. Anyway, hope you enjoy <3

The static fills Martin with a cold, intestine-freezing fear. It’s not rational, of course it’s not, it’s just static, just...just Jon’s recording software glitching out, or a problem with the mic Julia was using, or  _ something _ , but it still...it’s still unsettling. 

And of course, there’s the issue of telling Jon. Jon can’t possibly  _ blame _ him, since he hasn’t touched anything, but Martin has a nagging feeling that won’t exactly matter. Either way, it’s a bullet he has to bite before too long, so while starting the file over again, just to make sure (and yes, it’s still ‘Oops All Static’), he texts Jon.

_ uh yeah hi, could u...could u listen to the file u sent me it’s...weird _

**Weird how?**

_ yeah just listen pls _

**...well, that’s…**

**Would you mind coming back over? There has to be an explanation for this.**

Martin sighs. He doesn’t  _ really _ want to go back to Jon’s unsettlingly bare, small flat, especially not if it has Jon in it, but he also has nothing else to do and should probably keep the lying to his coworkers at the absolute requisite minimum. No need to push it too far.

And hey, maybe this could be an opportunity to, y’know,  _ bond _ ! Surely Jon’s not as cold as he seems, and now that they have something deeply weird to share, maybe...maybe...well, Martin’s not so stupid as to think his immediate unfounded crush is ever going to  _ go _ anywhere, but maybe he can fantasize, y’know? Nothing wrong with that.

_ sure, i’ll come at 5? _

**Alright.**

So Martin showers, finally, and revels in the brief break from his binder, which is really starting to feel like it’s going to cave his ribcage in  _ any _ minute now. Gets dressed, a little more casual, but in a like--like an ‘oh you’ve caught me in my pre-going out things!’ look, like maybe he’s a fun person who had to abort plans for this. Takes his meds, because he’s a Very Responsible Boy™ and Not just because the aggressively worded daily reminder flashes up on his phone, shut up.

He also eats for the first time, which makes his stomach stab and twist in pain, because apparently Tim’s job title is ‘destroyer of worlds’ and the description is ‘benevolently get innocent men fucked up enough to ruin their whole entire day’. 

He actually makes it to Jon’s flat  _ by 5 _ (1-Martin Blackwood, 0-executive dysfunction!), and knocks on the door, wondering if he should’ve brought something. He’s not sure what the etiquette is for situations like this.

Jon opens the door and doesn’t even greet him before turning back around and sitting down at the table with his computer and the microphones. He looks...odd, hair messily pulled back, bouncing his leg so quickly it almost has motion blur (or that’s just Martin’s brain lagging). 

“I tried speeding up and slowing down the audio,” he says, as Martin closes the door and sits down across from him. “I don’t know, I thought maybe--maybe somehow the  _ actual _ recording just...you know how there’s sometimes things hidden in static? Like it’s speaking to you, and you just can’t understand it? I thought maybe that...somehow could’ve happened by accident.”

“Uh…” Martin starts, a little concerned in turns by the strange, manic energy radiating off of Jon, the weirdly conspiracy-theory-y start, and by how attracted he is to both of those things.

“But there’s nothing,” Jon says, running a hand back through his hair, leg still going at about a thousand miles an hour. “So I don’t know.”

“Have you tested the mics yet?” Martin asks, taking a stab at ‘helpful and reassuring’.

“Obviously that’s the next step, Martin, yes, I just--I don’t know, I had to start  _ somewhere _ .”

“Right, well, it’s--I mean, it’s probably just normal, right? So...we’ll figure it out,” Martin says, voice starting to pitch up and betray him. He was hoping, since Jon is The Skeptic, that this would be more comforting. That Jon would have an explanation for the whole weird eerie business. Whatever  _ this _ is isn’t helping.

“Yes. Yes, you’re right,” Jon says, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing, shoulders relaxing slightly. “You’re probably right.”

“It freaked me out too, I get it,” Martin says, softly.

“It didn’t  _ freak me out _ , Martin, we lost an interview with someone with an actual fucking high-profile interesting story to tell. That could’ve been  _ incredible _ , and I want to make sure it doesn’t happen again,” Jon snaps, and Martin puts his hands up in a placating gesture.

“Alright, alright, I get it, I’m sorry.”

“What, do you think it’s  _ ghosts _ ?” Jon asks, scoffing, but the derision doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Martin gets the nagging sense that maybe Jon’s as much of a liar as he is.

“No, I don’t think it’s  _ ghosts _ ,” Martin sighs, even though he maybe a little bit thinks it’s ghosts. “Let’s test the mics.”

They spend longer than probably is necessary testing both microphones, and then testing the computer without either of them plugged in, and the conclusion is that everything is completely fine. No static, just totally normal audio of the two of them struggling to fill two minutes by having a conversation (“So...do you...watch TV?” “No.” “Okay, then.” etc).

Finally, Jon visibly gives up, and leans back in his chair, sighing into his hands. “Well...I guess it was a total anomaly, then,” he says. “Fuck.”

“Yeah…” Martin says. “Well, we’ll have someone new soon, right?”

“Probably not someone like Julia Montauk, but yes,” Jon says. “I think I need a drink.”

Martin waits for the ‘d’you wanna join me’, but it doesn’t come, so he attempts to invite himself. “Uh, yeah, me too,” he says, forced-cheerily, even though he will probably drop dead if he as much as smells hard alcohol. 

“...right,” Jon says. “Uh, I’m going to...go. So.” He stands up, awkwardly, and opens the door for Martin, who stands too, sort of hugging himself.

“Are you alright?” Martin asks, and Jon looks genuinely surprised for a moment. 

“I think so,” Jon says, tone a little softer than Martin’s heard it before. “Just...y’know. Put out.”

“Yeah,” Martin says. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Jon says, unable to make eye contact. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Thank you for coming.”

“Look, can I get a drink  _ with _ you? Or is that…” Martin says, shrugging. 

“Oh,” Jon says, blinking. “Oh, that’s why you said--uh, y--yes, sure?”

“Not like--I mean, just as--acquaintances?” Martin says, quickly.

“What else would it be?” Jon asks, looking a little blank.

“Yeah, right, exactly,” Martin says, laughing nervously.  _ Good going, Blackwood, absolutely fantastic, you made it extremely awkward and now you have to drink _ .

They find a bar that’s a five minute walk, and Martin gets a beer that he pretends to drink and watches Jon drink somewhat viciously, chainsmoking to wash it down. Martin recognizes a coping mechanism when he sees one. Jon’s actually  _ scared _ about this whole thing.

They don’t really speak, and Martin sort of regrets all his life choices and considers just making an excuse and going home until Jon finally says something.

“I know you said you’ve never had a supernatural experience, but do you--do you  _ believe _ ?” he asks, looking up at Martin with what looks like genuine interest in his eyes.

“I don’t know,” Martin says. “I think so?”

“Why?” Jon asks, taking a long drag. 

“I just...I want to, I guess. I think it’d be sad if...if everything that exists...if that’s just all there is, y’know?” Martin shrugs, and finally takes an actual swig of beer. “I don’t know.”

“But what if--what if the supernatural  _ is _ real, and it’s  _ horrible _ ,” Jon says. “Would you want it to exist then?”

“Well, no, of course not,” Martin says. “But reality’s pretty horrible as is, so I guess...at least paranormal stuff would be a nice variety?”

“Hmm.” 

“Do you believe?” Martin asks. It’s a stupid question on its surface, sure, but he’s in pretty deep already, and he wants to Find Jon’s Hidden Depths, because everything is a romance novel if you try hard enough.

“No,” Jon says, too quickly. “No, of course I don’t, Martin. I think...I think the human mind is fragile and easily toyed with by any number of things, and that maybe it’s fun--thrilling, I mean--to indulge in, but...but that doesn’t make it  _ real _ . It wasn’t  _ real _ .”

“What--what wasn’t real?” Martin asks, squinting in confusion.

Jon slams his fifth shot of the evening and grimaces. “Nothing.”

“Are you  _ sure _ you’re okay?” Martin asks.

“Yes, I’m  _ fine _ , stop asking,” Jon snaps. “Why do you  _ care _ so much?”

“You just...don’t seem fine.”

“Well, I am,” Jon says, lighting another cigarette. 

“Okay. Well. If you’re sure, I’m gonna go home,” Martin says, hunching his shoulders a little defensively. “Uh. See you. Sorry about the static.”

Jon doesn’t respond, just sort of hums, and Martin puts a few quid on the counter and leaves, pulling his phone out on the walk home. He’s got several texts from Tim.

**hey mate!! had fun last night!! should do it again! but actually with sasha this time, i think you two’d get on.**

**i hope you survived day one of jon**

**oh god please let me know you survived jon**

**oh! also before i forget, my-our boss wants to hear you two’s first ep together/on the network, so could you kick that over to me once you’re done? no rush**

Martin’s heart drops. He considers going back to ask Jon what they should do, but he doesn’t...really want to touch that again, so he texts instead.

_ hey jon, so i guess bouchard (is that his name?) wants to hear the episode _

_ which obviously we can’t do _

_ so what should we do _

There’s no response, and Martin makes it home uneventfully and falls into bed. There’s probably a lot of stuff he  _ should _ do, like...well, there isn’t much, other than job applications, which he’s not really in the mindset for anyway. 

So he strips out of his binder and turns the lights out, and he’s having a nice, not at all frightening dream about a foggy beach where the sound of crashing waves is replaced by that endless, eerie static when his phone rings and jolts him awake.

He answers without looking at the number. It’s like one AM, no one would call this late unless it’s about his mother, and panic is absolutely filling his entire body when--

“Uh, hi, Martin, sorry to--sorry to wake you, but--uh--so--something really fucking weird just happened,” comes Jon’s rushed voice.

“Jon, it’s--” Martin mutters, the panic fading at once and leaving him more exhausted than before.

“Yes, I know, but when I got back from the bar, there was a  _ man _ in my flat--and he said I didn’t lock the door, but I did, I--I  _ think _ I did...he was very Goth, it was...it was odd all around, and I--I don’t know, I was drunk, and it scared me, so I started recording on my phone, in case the police needed evidence? I don’t know,” Jon blurts. “Anyway, he left, said he...he wanted to  _ help _ , which...well, I just had the nagging urge to listen to the recording, and  _ Martin _ \--”

Martin knows what he’s going to say before he says it. “Static.”

“Yes,” Jon breathes. “My voice came out clear, but when he was speaking--just--”

“Okay, well, I’m not awake enough for this,” Martin says, even though he is suddenly  _ very _ awake, his heart doused in icewater. 

“Right. You’re right. I’m probably--I could’ve damaged my phone, or--or maybe--I don’t know,” Jon says. “It’s fine. You’re right. It’s fine.”

“I didn’t say--”

“Sorry about that,” Jon says, and hangs up.

“You--” Martin starts, and then sighs as the phone beeps. “Fuck.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again!! Thank you all so, so much for the comments, they make my day and you guys are so sweet.   
> This is a short one (sorry about that...just started working full-time again), and it's definitely different...I'm gonna call it a Jon Interlude TM, maybe I'll do more later.  
> Anyway, love y'all, hope you enjoy!

The static gnaws away at Jon’s mind. He can’t sleep, doesn’t even try, just smokes out his window, drums his fingers on the sill, tries not to think about it, even though it’s all he can hear. 

Strange things happen all the time. This could be complete coincidence, just technology malfunctioning under his admittedly semi-clueless touch. If--no, there  _ does  _ have to be an explanation, and someone must know it.

He pulls out his phone without thinking. Georgie’s his first contact, and sure, they haven’t spoken in years, but she...she might know what’s going on, she’s had a successful podcast for years, and if this is a normal thing, then she’ll know.

He types out  _ Hi Georgie, I hope you’re well, I know it’s been a while--I’m having an odd audio issue, and I was wondering if I could ask you about it _ and then deletes it, because it’s almost two in the morning, that’s an odd thing to text your ex out of nowhere, and she’ll ask him so many questions about him and his state of mind that it won’t even be worth it.

Besides, who the fuck is he kidding? He can’t hear  _ anything _ over the static stuck in his head, the waves, crashing and falling. There’s a tingling down his spine, too, the odd feeling of being--well,  _ watched _ , but--he’s just being paranoid. He’s just a little startled by the man in his kitchen, that’s all. The Goth with the eye tattoos, holding the  _ #1 Grandpa _ mug Georgie gave Jon a long time ago, sitting on his counter and staring at him. (There was nothing  _ in  _ the mug, which Jon discovered after the fact--it somehow disturbed him more than anything else about the situation).

Jon’s finger had slid to the voice memo app on his phone before he even realized what he was doing, like he  _ had _ to record this--he rationalized it being for the police after the fact, but in the moment, it was for him. 

Even with the recording corrupted, Jon remembers the man’s exact words.  _ You’re getting into a world of shit, here. You need a shovel. _

Jon had just sort of sputtered, landed on  _ get the fuck out of my home _ , and the man had sighed and put the mug down.

_ I’m your metaphorical hardware store, mate _ , he’d said, sliding off the counter and brushing by Jon, sending  _ ice  _ cold spreading through his veins. 

So that had been a strange encounter, to say the least, and clearly it rattled Jon, and now his mind is searching for fear where there is none. There is  _ nothing _ to be afraid of, everything is  _ fine _ , we’re all fine here, how are you? 

He exits out of Georgie’s contact and goes to Martin’s last texts, which he’d neglected to read before panic-calling. In retrospect, that was embarrassing and unnecessary. As if  _ Martin _ could help.

Rather than actually responding, Jon just emails the staticky non-episode to Bouchard with no explanation. He keeps smoking, thoughts swallowed by nicotine and that endlessly nagging sense of being  _ seen _ , and then his phone dings.

It’s been half an hour since he emailed Bouchard, it’s near three AM, and yet. From  [ _ elias@magnusnetwork.com _ ](mailto:elias@magnusnetwork.com) .

_ Have you considered going analogue? Tape recorders are suitably creepy. Would certainly set you apart from the market.  _

Moments later, Bouchard sends him an Amazon link to a cheap tape digitization machine. It’s not a terrible idea, and Jon resents that he didn’t think of it himself, but he still has this nagging fear of trying something completely different and still--

_ \--and the tape whirring and spooling like a spider weaving a web-- _

well, it’s worth a try. He has a tape recorder somewhere on a shelf, an old relic, a half-hearted gift from his grandmother when he was about eleven and had to interview someone for a school project.

He texts Martin back. It’s only fair. 

**Emailed Bouchard. He suggests we go analogue. I agree. I have a tape recorder that’ll work.**

**If you have time tomorrow to choose our next guest with me, let me know. We need to make up for what we lost.**

**Sorry for calling you. I’m alright now, it was an overreaction.**

He pulls his hair back, flicks his cigarette out the window, and decides to just search for the tape recorder now. He’s sure it’ll be in a box, or buried somewhere, but when he turns to a shelf to look, it’s just...sitting there. In a place of pride.

Like it’s been waiting for him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, back to your regularly scheduled Martin content. I hope...I hope I am not going too far off the rails here, I promise I have Some idea what I'm doing. Thank you again for all the comments, you guys make me so happy and it makes this really fun to write!! Hope you enjoy.

In Jon’s flat the next morning, Martin makes tea because Jon didn’t offer and tries not to fall asleep with his head resting against a cupboard. He couldn’t sleep after Jon’s panicked call. Didn’t respond to his texts until a reasonable hour because he wanted to pretend to be Normal and Unbothered and maybe a bit sexy for his Stoicism.

He is  _ fucking _ tired, though, and Jon seems to be too, eyes bloodshot, hair falling out of a rubber band Martin watched him take off a bag of cereal. He still looks oddly  _ present _ , though, still with that strange hunger in his sharp gaze. 

Martin sits down across from him, both hands around his mug, and Jon just blinks at him as he takes a long, deep inhale of steam. 

“So, can I hear the recording of the, uh...the guy who broke in?” Martin asks, scratching his eyebrow.

“No, that’s alright, I’ve put that behind me,” Jon says, sort of flicking his hand dismissively. “I think--we need to just ignore the, well, roadblocks of the last day, and move on.”

“...roadblocks…?” Martin asks, putting the mug down and massaging his temples. “Right, I don’t  _ get  _ you.”

“What’s not to get, Martin?” Jon asks, voice suddenly becoming that of a world-weary seventy-year-old. “I had...some kind of episode, I guess. I’m sorry for involving you. I’m fine.”

“Bullshit,” Martin says, exhaustion loosening him to the point where things just come out of his mouth. He resists the urge to physically cover it before the next wave of words he doesn’t have control over hit. “You were  _ scared _ , and that’s  _ fine _ , because yesterday was fucking weird, but don’t lie.” 

“I was--I was  _ unsettled _ ,” Jon says, hugging himself and shrugging defensively. “I’m not...altogether... _ well _ , Martin, and sometimes...”

Martin suddenly feels like an incredible asshole. “I’m not either,” he says, softly and reflexively, instinctually defending himself from his own creeping self-hatred. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Jon says. “I was erratic. It won’t happen again.”

“Okay. Uh. Well, good. Yeah.” Martin takes a long, scalding hit of tea, trying not to yelp at the heat. “Um, I was thinking. About the show.”

“That’s good,” Jon says, hint of a genuine, teasing smile flickering at the edge of his lips. Martin shoves down six different fantasies of making him make that face again.

“Uh. Yeah, I know you like to...okay,  _ shittalk _ is a bad word for it, but--” Martin starts.

“It is, yes,” Jon says, nearly snaps, warmth gone from his eyes. 

“I just mean--”

“I know what you mean.” Jon crosses his arms. “Listeners should have multiple sides, Martin, it’s dangerous to just present people’s...beliefs and delusions as fact.”

“Okay, sure, just maybe let’s not do your whole skeptic corner bit  _ with the guests in the room _ ,” Martin says, shrugging. “That’s all. It really doesn’t make you look good.”

“Why should I care how I come off?”

“Because you’re the fucking--” Martin starts, then takes a deep breath and drinks his tea. He starts again, more calmly, Jon’s eyebrows nearly at his hairline. “You’re the host, Jon, yeah? You agree with that?”

“...yes, obviously…”

“And you need people to  _ like _ you so they’ll listen to the show, since you’re the only constant piece of it. Yeah?”

“I don’t think they need to  _ like  _ me,” Jon says, shrugging.

“Look, d’you listen to What the Ghost?” Martin asks, rubbing his forehead. He did a lot of research in his time spent Very Awake last night. Listened to Stale Air’s old episodes, and then branched out into other supernatural podcasts to get a feel for the market. What the Ghost is definitely the standout.

Jon’s face goes completely odd and inscrutable. “No,” he says, flatly.

“Well, the host, uh, Georgie, she’s really...fun? She, like, actually interjects in her guests’ stories and jokes with them and it’s...I mean, it’s fun to listen to,” Martin says. “You just go quiet. You’re like a horror sponge.”

“Why would I interrupt them? They come here because they feel the need to get things off their chests,” Jon says.

“Maybe we can just...try it? Try interacting with your next guest more? And try recording your rebuttal or whatever after they’re gone?” Martin says, pitching everything into a question because feminine pushover conditioning really gets its claws in and never quite lets go, huh.

“Fine,” Jon sighs. “It won’t work.”

“I’m glad you trust me so much,” Martin says, finishing off his tea and trying not to be  _ too _ bitchy when he slams the mug down in the sink to rinse it out.

“I’m not  _ like _ Georgie,” Jon says, and Martin leans out of the kitchen to squint at him.

“I thought you said you didn’t listen to the show.”

“I don’t,” Jon says, flatly, with full eye contact, and Martin shakes his head and leans back into the kitchen to text Tim a  _ maybe u were right abt this guy _ , to which Tim immediately texts back  **do spill** . Martin puts his phone back in his pocket and sits back down across from Jon.

“Alright, who’s our next guest?” Martin asks.

“Thought we could go through my emails together and figure that out,” Jon says, opening his computer. Martin slides his chair over so he can see, and reaches out without asking to scroll through Jon’s emails. Jon gives him a look from the depths of hell, but says nothing.

“Why d’you have so  _ many _ ?” Martin asks.

“Not sure. Ever since Bouchard picked the show up, I’ve been getting at least ten a day,” Jon says. 

“What’s--what’s Bouchard  _ like _ ?” Martin asks. “I have literally no concept of the man.”

“Probably better that way, honestly,” Jon says. “He’s...very...bureaucratic.”

“...bureaucratic?”

“You’d know if you met him,” Jon says, shrugging. Martin makes a confused but assenting noise, just to end the interaction, and skims the names and subject lines of the emails for anything that stands out.

He honestly ends up choosing a name at random. “Melanie King?” he says, clicking the email, and Jon gives him another deeply scathing look. “ _ What _ ?”

“Ghost Hunt UK is absolute trash,” Jon mutters.

“Ghost H--what?”

“Melanie King. She has a YouTube show,” Jon says, gesturing at the email, which does indeed mention that her story is about something she saw while filming her ghost hunting show. “It’s absolute baseless nonsense.”

“Is it popular?” Martin asks.

“Unfortunately,” Jon says, visibly gearing up for some rant about how the public are completely non-discerning and just  _ want to believe _ any garbage that makes the world more exciting, or something, Martin’s starting to be able to autofill his speeches, but Martin cuts him off.

“Good, she’s our next guest,” Martin says, punching the number she left in the email into his phone. 

“ _ What _ ?”

“I’m your producer, I get to make calls on things,” Martin says, maybe a little smugly, what of it. The phone rings, and Melanie picks up.

“Hi?” she says, and Martin puts the phone on the table and puts it on speaker.

“Hi, Melanie? This is Martin Blackwood from Stale Air, would you still be interested in coming on the show?” Martin asks, leaning his chin in his hand and trying not to smirk and Jon seething next to him.

“Sure, yeah,” Melanie says. “There’s no--you won’t pay me, right?”

“ _ No _ ,” Jon says, sharply, and Martin shushes him. 

“We’ll buy you a drink?” Martin asks, genuinely kicking himself for not thinking about compensation, especially with the theoretical ad revenue of being on an actual network. Who knew he’d be shit at this? No one could’ve guessed.

“A drink with  _ Jonathan Sims _ ?” Melanie asks, snorting. “Yeah, thanks, but no thanks, I’m happy to just tell the story.”

“Great,” Martin says. “Uh, when’s a good time for you?”

“Honestly, you have time today? I’m shooting for a few days over the weekend, so…” 

Jon sighs and gives Martin a tiny nod, and Martin smiles a little patronizingly back at him. “Sure, I’ll text you the address, can you make it by...one?” Martin asks.

“Sure. See you.” Melanie hangs up, and Martin punches the air.

“See, you were worried about high profile guests, but  _ she’s _ popular,” Martin says. “This is great.”

“Serial killer’s daughter and ghost-fabricating charlatan are two different ballparks,” Jon mutters, and Martin barely bites back a  _ what century are you from _ .

*

Melanie’s been in the flat for about thirty seconds before things get mildly unpleasant. Jon doesn’t even say hello, just asks her to sit down and turns on his ancient tape recorder.

“You’re absolutely fucking joking,” Melanie says, looking nearly delighted at the relic. “Wow. I love it. Keep the vintage asshole dream  _ alive _ . It’s so...it’s so  _ your show _ .”

“Then why not go on a  _ better _ show?” Jon asks, crossing his arms, irritation flickering across his face. “You’re very ghosty and  _ popular _ , I’m sure you could get on What the Ghost.”

Melanie snorts and covers her mouth with her hand. “Considering I’m dating the host, yeah, I  _ guarantee _ it.”

“ _ You’re _ dating--?” Jon starts, then shakes his head. “Uh. Well, what’s your story about.”

“A...really weird lady who did an episode of the show with us.”

“Al...right. Welcome to Stale Air. I’m Jonathan Sims, today interviewing Melanie King, host of Ghost Hunt UK, about her experience with...an odd freelancer, which I’m fairly certain is a redundant phrase,” Jon says, looking mildly delighted at his own joke, which makes Martin’s heart do a weird thing.

“...yeah, sure,” Melanie says. “For the record, I’m only telling it here because you’re not respectable.”

“Unnecessarily rude for someone who makes up unfounded paranormal nonsense for  _ gripping _ entertainment.”

“You let a guy who admitted to tripping during his  _ encounter _ on the show. At least we use actual research and technology,” Melanie says.

“Because your technology is  _ so very  _ reliable and universally trusted.”

“Guys, we’re all professionals here,” Martin says, and both of them turn to him with vitriol in their eyes. He sighs, too tired for this. “Melanie, tell your story, please.”

She tells her story, and Jon doesn’t interject, which Martin is honestly a bit glad about, despite their previous conversation. It’s creepy, certainly, Martin gets the odd spine-tingle, but it’s not really as sensational as he’d hoped, considering.

“You know,” Melanie says, once she’s finished and taken a pause, like she had to recover from something, “I know it’s all just  _ mystic nonsense _ , but your flat is haunted as  _ shit _ .”

“What?” Jon asks, blinking as if coming out of a trance. “What do you mean?”

“I mean it is _ spooky  _ in here. Feels like ghosts. Someone die here or something?”

“I--I don’t know,” Jon says, eyes darting over to the kitchen. 

“Might wanna get that looked at,” Melanie says, pushing herself to her feet. “Well, thanks.” She slides her leather jacket on and leaves, giving Martin a small wave. “That was...not entirely unpleasant? I guess?”

“The feeling is almost mutual,” Jon says, not looking at her, still staring towards the kitchen as she leaves and closes the door behind her.

“You alright?” Martin asks, reaching over and turning the tape recorder off where it’s been spinning forgotten on the table.

“What? Uh, yes,” Jon says. “Tired. Sorry.”

“Hey, at least we have something we can make into an episode now, right?” Martin asks, trying to force energy and positivity into his voice. 

“Hopefully,” Jon says, picking up the tape recorder, rewinding, and hitting play. No static, just crackly, whirring audio. Both of them give tiny, relieved sighs.

“Alright, I’m gonna go,” Martin says. “You can record yourself tearing her story apart alone, I trust you.” He yawns and covers his mouth, standing up.

“You don’t want to do it with me?” Jon asks, almost sounding hurt. “I thought it would be more fun if--”

“I think you have a good handle on the skepticism without me,” Martin says. He heads for the door, but stops before he turns the handle, noticing something on the ground. He crouches, and it’s...a spider. Another one. Small and harmless, just trying to go about its day. “Jon, there’s a--uh--”

“What?” Jon asks, audibly distracted, and Martin sighs, doesn’t push it, would rather just let Jon deal with it. 

“See you,” Martin says, and Jon doesn’t answer. There’s the sound of whirring tape behind Martin as he leaves. 

He passes a pale Goth smoking on the stairs, and something flickers in his mind--didn’t Jon say the man who broke in--? But Martin’s tired and he doesn’t want to harass someone who’s probably just a regular guy minding his own business.

So he keeps his head down and keeps walking. Like Jon said, he’s fine, so Martin should also be fine. Everything is  _ fine _ . People who peel their own skin off like leather gloves and keep glowing hearts in jars are  _ fine _ , and so are potentially menacing Goths, and so is a little static every once in a while. No need for Martin’s shit brain to start trying to weave everything together.

He’s honestly starting to get why Jon’s so fixated on not believing. Believing’s a bit overwhelming once you let yourself start, even a little. 

He feels like he’s being watched on his walk home, like every eye is turned on him. He knows that game. It’s the anxious dysphoria of being a teenager with his tits electrical-taped down. Feeling like everyone’s watching. Been a while since he’s felt it, and it makes his neck itch.

The itch doesn’t stop when he gets in his building, doesn’t stop as he climbs the stairs, doesn’t stop when he finds a massive spiderweb hanging from his shower curtain rod.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I didn't mean for this to be another Jon one, but alas, here we are. Also, okay, I have to confess that while I do have a vague plan for this fic, it keeps...going directions I don't mean it to. I'm still having fun, though, and I hope you are too! Thanks again for all the validation <3

Once Jon finishes thoroughly skewering Melanie’s credibility--which, at fifteen minutes, clocks in moderately below what he was expecting--he checks his phone to find an email from Bouchard, subject line ‘Ad copy for this week’.

Jon squints and opens the email. Sure, he expected to have to read ads _eventually_ , but promoting capitalism wasn’t exactly number one on his list of reasons to start a podcast. He’s actually not entirely sure what his reasons _were_ , if he’s honest, the memories are a little fogged, but alas.

The ad is...well, not what he expected. He figured it would be, you know, one of those posh meal services, or mattresses or socks or something banal that thirtysomethings who listen to podcasts must love, if literally every other podcast in the world is something to go by.

This is--strange isn’t the right word, because sure, it makes sense, sort of, but--well, it’s for an apartment complex that needs tenants. Specifically, it’s offering cheap housing for people in odd transitional states in their life, which seems _very_ pointed, but, well, who else really listens to horror podcasts for comfort? Clearly this...Peter Lukas...knows his audience. 

It gives Jon a strange feeling, but he records it anyway, trying not to inject any enthusiasm into the reading whatsoever so everyone knows he’s not happy about having sponsors. He can almost hear Martin the whole time though, _come on, Jon, liven it up a_ little.

He’s known the man less than a week, who gave him permission to take up residence in Jon’s brain to nag him about the show? 

When he finishes, he shuts the recorder off and leaves it on the table, going to the window to light a cigarette and pointedly not think about Melanie’s comment about his flat being--what were her words? Right. _Haunted as shit_.

It’s not as if he hasn’t felt it. Well, felt _something_ . That odd tingling in his spine, the feeling of being watched, the way he sometimes looks in the bathroom mirror and swears his reflection is someone else, but that’s all just his _fucking_ paranoia, the residuals of whatever brainfucked him so badly as a kid, but he is getting _better_ , and Melanie was fucking with him, and Everything. Is. Fine.

His phone dings and it startles him so badly he flings the lit cigarette out the window and sighs as it clears the fire escape and falls into the alley. It’s just a fucking spam email, and he takes a long, shaking breath and presses his hand over his eyes. He just needs sleep. Truly, he just needs to sleep through a single goddamn night. Or at all. Just a few hours would be nice, at this point.

He closes the window and runs his hand back through his hair, heading into his bedroom, he can nap, right? Just--just for a bit, just until he’s a little more rested and everything gets less overwhelming.

But there’s...a door. On the wall adjoining his bedroom door. A door that should lead out into the thin air over the alley. Dark yellow, black handle. Jon’s fairly--well, he’d like to be sure that the door wasn’t there before, but he’s starting once again to question everything he sees, so, who knows? Maybe he’s just been ignoring a door in his flat.

That’s absurd, though, the door wasn’t there before. On the other hand, it’s absurd for there to _be_ a new door there. _Haunted as shit_ , yes, thanks Melanie. He instinctively reaches a hand out, ghosting over the handle, about to pull, some deep, forcibly buried memory flashbulb-bursting in his mind--

_black hairy impossibly long legs poised to strike doorway webbed with silk Mr. Spider wants more--_

A voice comes from behind him.

“I really wouldn’t recommend doing that.”

Jon whips around with a startled, strangled scream, to find the same Goth that showed up in his apartment last night sat on the table next to the tape recorder, looking down at it and idly flicking it, though it doesn’t seem to be moving at all.

Jon points in his direction, trying to speak, though nothing comes out. The man cocks his head in a faintly sarcastic facsimile of patience. The eye tattooed on his throat seems to be staring directly at Jon.

“How--the _fuck--_ do you keep getting in here,” Jon says. “Who _are_ you, what’s--” He presses both hands to his forehead and sinks to the ground, resting his head back against the new door. He can almost hear something behind it, the faint sound of...screaming, maybe? Melodic voices? Neon pulsing indescribable unearthly pseudo-music?

He’s losing his mind again. That’s what has to be happening. Either he’s losing his mind or there is a lot of strangeness in this world and it’s all happening specifically to him, for some reason.

“Thought you’d never ask. I’m Gerry,” the man says, pressing long fingers with black-painted fingernails over his heart. “Hi.”

“Hello, Gerry,” Jon says, without dropping his hands to look at Gerry. “Why are you in my flat. Also, I know you can’t really answer this, but are you--are you _real_ ? Because…” He sighs. “Why would I ask _you_ that.”

Gerry sort of laughs. “Yeah, that one never helps. I’m in your flat because it would’ve been bad for you if you’d gone through that door, and I was in the position to help. So.”

“What is it?” Jon asks, weakly. “And you still haven’t answered how you keep getting in.”

“The door’s an entrance to the Spiral,” Gerry says, matter-of-factly.

“Oh, yes, the Spiral,” Jon says, dropping his hands to glare at Gerry. “What the _fuck_ is happening--and for the last time, _how did you get in here_.”

“Legitimately, your door’s unlocked,” Gerry says, shrugging. “Not that that would’ve mattered. I’m not exactly super corporeal at present.”

“So--so _what_ , you’re a _ghost_?” Jon asks, desperately. 

“Don’t you wanna know about the door?” Gerry asks, sighing. “I’d want to know about the door.”

“I will fucking _get to that_ in _good time_ ,” Jon snaps, and Gerry blinks in surprise, smirking a little.

“Alright, then. Damn. Yeah. I guess I’m a ghost. Don’t ask me how, or why, cuz I don’t fucking know, probably something to do with my mum-- _definitely_ don’t ask about my mum, we’ve only just met, and she’s definitely more of a third-date conversation,” Gerry says, putting a hand out defensively.

“Bullshit,” Jon says.

“What, that I don’t wanna talk about my psychopathic mother?” Gerry asks.

“That you’re a ghost. Bullshit.”

“So you accepted the extradimensional door just fine, but ghosts are where you draw the line?” Gerry asks. “I truly will never understand why Elias marks the people he does.”

“Wh--Elias? You know him?”

“Look, mate, there is a _lot_ to unpack here, take a few deep breaths, have a smoke or something--actually, can I get one?” Gerry asks, cocking his head, long, dark hair cascading to the side.

“I thought you weren’t particularly corporeal,” Jon says, flatly. 

“ _Well_ ,” Gerry says, exasperatedly, then sighs. “Yeah. Guess you’re right.”

Jon takes his advice, though, goes back to the window, lifts it open, and leans out, smoking fairly aggressively. “I still don’t fucking believe you’re a ghost.”

“That is very weird of you,” Gerry says. “Don’t you know ghosty people?”

“Well--yes, actually,” Jon says. “And I’ll ask them about you, but first, I guess--the door.” Jon turns back towards the wall where the door was, and it is, naturally, no longer.

“Yeeeah,” Gerry says. “Any chance you’re still gonna believe it _was_ there, or…?”

“No,” Jon says, reflexively. If there’s no explanation for it, it wasn’t real. It didn’t happen. Probably this-- _Gerry_ \--isn’t real either. He looks enough like early 2000s Gerard Way that he could just be some weird manifestation of Jon’s teenage self, back when things were _really_ bad. “No, that was--I should, uh. I should see someone.”

Gerry sighs. “So, if I told you there were fear gods, and your stupid little show is feeding them, you would say…”

_\--Knock. Knock. Who is it, Mr. Spider.--_

“I would say that’s fucking ridiculous,” Jon says, resolutely. “Because it is. It _is_ ridiculous.”

“That’s what I thought,” Gerry says, sighing upwards with enough force to blow his hair up. If he’s a ghost, how the fuck does he have air in his lungs, if--if he’s--god, _fuck_ , no, Jon’s fine, this is all fine, this is just a lack of sleep and maybe needing meds again, or, or _something_. “Well, I’ll see you around the next time something tries to kill you, then.”

Jon can’t even make himself respond to that, just watches as Gerry slides off the table, fires off fingerguns at him, and--phases through his front door. So that at least rules out the possibility of him being a real person who just hangs around fucking with the mentally unstable.

He shakily pulls his phone out and texts Georgie before he can think himself out of it. _You know a lot about ghosts. If there was a ghost in my flat, would you be able to tell me?_

The response comes quickly, and makes him feel ill, saliva flooding his mouth. **jon, did you relapse?**

He resists the urge to throw his phone. _No. I might be losing my mind, but no. I just...I trust you to tell me the truth, even if it’s...improbable._

The typing bubbles pop up, and Jon stares at them, waiting the full five minutes before she finally sends **alright i’ll be there in half an hour**.

He sighs in relief, sits on the ground, and tries to breathe and keep breathing. He can’t get that sound he heard behind the door that didn’t exist out of his mind, that twisting, rainbow-blooded music, like it was pixelating his mind and rearranging the pixels into some new picture, like a bad acid trip that wouldn’t end--

But it ended. The door didn’t exist, and if it did, it’s gone, and he’s fine, or he’ll _be_ fine once he sleeps and once Georgie tells him conclusively that he’s just getting a bit overimaginative again.

A spider crawls over his bare foot. He claps a hand over his own mouth to stop himself screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this jongerry? Should this be jongerry? we just don't know.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I know two chapters in two days is excessive but I sort of got carried away. Also, getting the overwhelming impression that you guys quite like Jon/Gerry/Martin lmao so, hey, we'll see! I have an actual definitive plan for what I'm doing now, that's fun. Oh, and it's another Jon one. Don't worry, nefarious Martin things are happening off-screen. Hope you enjoy, as always!

Jon’s given up on trying to keep the flat smoke-free. He’s just sitting crosslegged on the floor under the window, staring at the front door, smoking his last cigarette and trying not to think about how he’s going to cope when it’s done. His knees are pulled to his chest, his phone face-up on the floor next to him, spider crushed under a nearby handy book. 

Georgie finally,  _ finally _ knocks on his door, and he sighs in relief and nearly breaks his face on the floor rushing to let her in. She gives him a very concerned look that twists a knife deep in his guts, gently pulls the lit cigarette out of his hand, and puts it out in his kitchen sink, before turning back to him, sighing, turning her phone flashlight on, and shining it directly in his eyes.

He blinks, obviously, both in surprise and pain at the sudden light, and she turns it off, sliding it back in her pocket.

“You’re really not on anything?” she asks, and he sighs.

“I’m really not, Georgie,” he says. “I promise.”

“Yeah, thing is, you--” She sighs. “No. Sorry. That was a long time ago.” 

“How...are you…?” Jon asks, shoving his hands in his pockets, shoulders instinctively defensively hunching against the extreme awkwardness of the situation. It’s been nearly seven years since they last saw each other, and since then it’s only been birthday texts, aside from when Jon’s grandmother died and they actually talked on the phone for a while, which was sort of nice at the time.

“I’m great, Jon,” she says, sounding quite irritated. “You’re smoking again?”

“Better that than anything else, I figured,” Jon snaps back. “Look, thank you for coming, I’m sorry if I--did whatever I did emotionally to you by texting you out of nowhere. I  _ did _ reach out for a reason.”

“Yeah. Ghosts,” Georgie says, rubbing her forehead. “My girlfriend mentioned she’d been on your show and that your flat was haunted, but she’s...a little...well, she’s sort of...she saw something, I guess, and she’s been extra jumpy about things since then, so I don’t know if you should’ve taken that to heart.”

“Believe me, I wouldn’t have, I don’t exactly trust her credibility,” Jon says. “If I hadn’t--fuck, Georgie, some  _ very strange things _ have been happening to me.”

“Yes, Jon, they usually are,” Georgie says, and she sounds  _ tired _ , and Jon feels a pang of resentment at that. 

“Also,” Jon says, before he can stop himself, because his ‘chronic asshole syndrome’, as Tim so eloquently puts it, seems to be terminal and incurable, “you couldn’t do better than a ghost-faker?”

“No,” Georgie says, tightly, and it’s a warning shot. “I couldn’t. She’s incredible. Gets a bit obsessive, but I suppose that’s just me having a type. Do you want help or not, because I was actually in the middle of editing, and--”

“Alright, I’m sorry,” Jon says. “Uh. Yes. I have a ghost. I think. Assuming I’m not...well, assuming I’m even moderately tethered to reality, there’s a ghost around. Can you--I mean, can you  _ sense _ things like that?”

“...no, Jon, I can’t just  _ sense _ ghosts, I’m not a medium. If you have, you know,  _ evidence _ , I can look at it, but--” Georgie starts, and Jon shrugs.

“Well, maybe--Gerry!” he calls, feeling a little stupid yelling, but, well, feeling stupid is currently the least of his issues. “Gerry, are you--could you--”

“Sorry, you have a ghost in your flat and his name is  _ Gerry _ ?” Georgie asks, crossing her arms.

“I didn’t name him, did I!” Jon says. “Gerry, you so badly want to  _ help _ , please?”

“There’s no one here, Jon,” Georgie says, softly, her eyes so fucking sad and full of pity. “There’s...I don’t think  _ Gerry _ \--where did you even  _ get _ that name--”

An arm phases through the wall facing Georgie, flipping her off. “Fuck you, it’s short for Gerard,” Gerry’s voice says, and Jon takes maybe a tiny bit of satisfaction in the way Georgie’s eyes widen.

“So you see him, then?” Jon asks, crossing his arms.

“I--yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s a fucking ghost,” Georgie says, eyes still wide. “Uh. Sorry for making fun of your name, Gerry.”

“I don’t forgive you, you have to call me Gerard,” Gerry says, stepping fully out of the wall. “But hi.”

“I…” Georgie says, shaking her head to snap herself out of the startled trance she seems to be in. “Wow, this is...really affirming, actually.”

“I thought it might be,” Jon says. He’s so relieved he didn’t hallucinate Gerry that it’s giving him a headrush strong enough he has to sit down, so he sinks back to the floor, where he suspects he’ll be spending a lot of time. He’s glad he’s sitting when the sudden weight of  _ if Gerry’s real then the door was real and if the door was real then Gerry wasn’t lying and if Gerry wasn’t lying then--  _ hits him like a train.

“Are you okay?” Georgie asks, crouching next to him and putting a hand on his shoulder as he sort of struggles for air through what he realizes is silent laughter. Maybe he hasn’t been completely detached from reality this whole time, maybe--maybe what he saw all those years ago was  _ real _ , maybe the book was  _ real _ , maybe the entire worldview he created to protect himself was complete bullshit, and maybe he’s always known that, deep down.

It’s unavoidable now. He’s actually sort of fucking ecstatic about it, ‘fear gods’ aside. “Yeah,” he says, breathlessly. “I’m great.”

Georgie looks concerned again, eyebrows knitting together, a look he is still so familiar with after all this time. “Uh...Jon, I…”

“No, really,” Jon says. “I--” He smiles, wide, mania edging in. “This is good.”

“You’re concerning me,” Georgie says. 

“Me too, a bit,” Gerry says, also squinting down at him, arms crossed, eyes tattooed on the backs of his hands giving Jon a very skeptical look. 

“Wait, so, wait--” Georgie says, turning back to Gerry, ever the professional paranormal investigator. “If you’re a ghost, you must have, you know,  _ unfinished business _ , right?”

Gerry blinks at her, slowly, almost cat-like. “We’ve just met and your opening volley was mocking my name.”

“Okay, fair,” Georgie says. “Fuck, Melanie is gonna  _ shit _ . Can I take a picture of you?”

“Good luck,” Gerry says, but poses with a peace sign nonetheless and waits for Georgie to take a picture. Her phone shuts itself off and kills the battery, and she swears as Gerry smirks to himself.

Jon listens, watches, but doesn’t absorb. His mind is tangled in spiders’ silk, in the memories he buried under therapy and drugs and deep, immovable-object levels of denial. But he’s ultimately a reasonable person. This is undeniable. The person he trusts most in the world is fully on board with the ghost in his flat and the world just got a lot stranger and maybe he’s been  _ way _ too harsh to the people on his show.

Georgie startles him out of it. “Jon, I...this was...really something, and I want to talk to you more about it, but I have to go. Are you going to be okay?”

“You have to  _ go _ ?” Jon asks, incredulously. “You, Georgie Barker, host of What the Ghost and noted proponent of the supernatural, have met an actual ghost, and you...have to go?”

“It’s not the first time I’ve seen any kind of revenant, Jon,” Georgie says, shrugging, like that’s a normal thing to say. “He’s just the first one that talks, and he doesn’t want to tell me anything, and I have to finish editing before my date tonight.”

“I…” Jon starts. “Uh, alright? I guess?” 

“Thank you, Jon, actually,” Georgie says. “This was massively cool.”

Jon just blinks as she makes an apologetic face in his direction and leaves him with Gerry, who sits down on the floor next to him, sending a chill through the side of his body.

“So, did you two used to--” Gerry starts, and Jon glares at him.   


“Not really your business,” he says, and Gerry half-smiles.

“Ended badly, then,” he says, matter-of-factly, nodding. “You were a mess?”

“Suddenly you want to talk about something other than the-- _ fear gods _ that want to kill me?” Jon asks, raising an eyebrow and crossing his arms.

“Didn’t know if you were ready yet. Besides, who doesn’t love some good old fashioned drama?” Gerry says.

“How did you die?” Jon asks, cocking his head at Gerry, who looks uncomfortable all of a sudden, like he’s trying to swallow something down.

“That’s not really relevant,” Gerry says, carefully, and the odd pressure seems to lift. 

“That’s not really an answer,” Jon says--snaps, maybe, annoyed by Gerry’s apparent desire to make things as convoluted as possible. “How. Did you die.”

Gerry sighs, lying back, head and shoulders phasing through the wall behind Jon. His voice is muffled when he says “God, fuck the Eye and the Web and fuck you too.”

“Still not an answer. Tell me,” Jon says. 

“It’s not--” Gerry sits back up. “If you think this is gonna give you some clue about whatever’s going on, or what to avoid doing or anything, it won’t.”

“I don’t believe you. Tell. Me.”

“Fucking brain tumor, alright?” Gerry says, throwing his hands up as the words are wrenched out of him. “Which is really embarrassing, honestly, considering the scores of more interesting things that could’ve killed me.”

Apologetic guilt floods Jon. “I’m sorry,” he says, softly, and Gerry scoffs.

“Yeah. Well. Me too,” he says. “Anyway, enough of the morbid shit, do you want a crash course in the entities? Shit That Rules The World And Wants To Kill You 101? I hate lecturing, but no way is that posh bitch Bouchard ever gonna clue you in.”

“I can’t exactly go back, now, can I,” Jon says.

“Nope.”

“Then lead on, Gerard,” Jon says, sighing, and Gerry makes a Face at him.

“Fucking nerd."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are the best, I love you, and thank you for reading <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit guys I cannot be stopped this weekend...three chapters in three days...woo! Anyway, back to Martin--this is probably maybe a bit heavy handed but well...oh well. Potential content warning for internalized transphobia? I'm absolutely projecting all my own gender shit onto Martin and I hope it's not coming out in a way that hurts anyone else lol.

It’s probably just the sleep loss, but Martin’s having One Of Those Days. The spiders in the bathroom were one thing, and he managed to shoo them all away, one by one, painstakingly coaxing them into glasses and letting them out on the fire escape. They weren’t afraid of him even a little, a few even climbed on him, which he usually would get at least a  _ tiny _ spine-tingle about, but hey, maybe they were his friends. It’s not like he can really make friends with people. Spiders don’t need him to be sweet and companionable and a fucking Big Soft Teddy Bear, so why not.

Getting them out took a good long while, and he considered calling someone to look at it, but in the end, he didn’t want them to die, and he could handle it, and it was a nice distraction from thinking about anything else. But he started to get a strange feeling, as he was about to gently brush away the huge web they’d all woven. 

It was all... _ intentional _ . Every strand of silk, every fibre, ever curve, all on purpose, all connected. Everyone only pays attention to the center, but the whole thing is so deliberate and intricate, so meticulous...those spiders knew their purpose and fulfilled it, no sick mothers, no dead fathers, no dysphoria or depression or lies, just--just weaving. Just work. Just pure focus and purpose. He stands there just sort of admiring it until loud music goes on in the flat above his and he blinks and realizes it’s dark out.

He tears the web down, shaking the feeling away, and thinks maybe he can have a normal, nice rest of his night. Yeah. Fucking joke. He does his weekly shot as he makes tea (it’s a tried and true Blackwood ritual, the T(ea)-shot, and he likes to stick to it), but his thumb catches on the plunger, that same fixated, strange feeling creeping over him. Does he want this for him or does he just want people to see what he wants them to see? He tries so fucking hard, but it’s like the spiderweb, isn’t it, people only pay attention to the center, only the focal point, only what you show them. 

It doesn’t even make  _ sense _ . He can’t really parse his own thoughts, can’t get to the center of them, can’t even figure out where they’re coming from, just knows he feels profoundly  _ stuck _ in the life he’s made for himself and in the body he keeps forcing himself to believe he has control over so he can live with it. The kettle whistles. He jumps, slams the plunger down, proceeds to pour himself tea, a rote action. 

He starts thinking...spiders aren’t usually very companionable creatures, are they? They eat each other. They’re just alone, weaving, waiting to trap something that can’t leave, something that isn’t like them, and they keep it in their web and wait for it to lose hope. Wait until their prey has to love them because there’s nothing else they’ll ever see again. 

_ ‘I love you, mum,’ like a plea after a while, like if he says it enough, she’ll finally be tricked into saying it back, she’ll finally realize he’s all she has. _

His phone rings. It’s almost ten PM and his tea’s long since gone cold. He answers, slowly, like he’s waking up from a dream. Jon’s voice, like a lighthouse beam burning through whatever exhausted fucking fog is gathering thick and cold and deep in Martin’s brain.

“There’s, uh--” Jon starts, and Martin cuts him off, a little dazedly.

“Hi, Jon,” he says, blinking himself out of it.

“Yes, hello, Martin,” Jon says. “There’s...well, um, I think--I think you may have-- _we_ may have--may _be--_ in something. And it might not be too late for you, and I think--we should talk. Would you--I mean--would you come over? Or I can come to you, or--I just--being alone right now doesn’t seem like a, uh, a fantastic idea, if I’m honest--”

“Are you alright?” Martin asks, squinting at the table, as if he’s in any position to ask anyone else that right now, and he holds the phone a little ways away from his ear as Jon laughs, low but hysterical.

“I don’t know that I can answer that, actually,” Jon says, containing himself somewhat. “On the one hand, no, no, I’m not, I’m  _ really fucking not _ , but on the other, I think I’m possibly more alright than I’ve been in twenty years?”

“Jon, should I--like--should I call someone? For you? I mean, are you--”

“Why does everyone think I’m fucking high?” Jon snaps. “Five years, and everyone still treats me like--” He sighs. “I’m alright, Martin, but I do think you should come over. For your sake as much as my own.”

“Sure,” Martin says, sighing, leaning his forehead into his hand. “I’m not exactly doing great here alone myself.”

Jon pauses on the other end. “How do you mean?” he asks, slowly, a little cautiously.

“Nothing,” Martin says. “Just...d’you ever--d’you ever feel like maybe--like you’re stuck and there’s no way to get yourself unstuck because you were always meant to be stuck? Except maybe you’re not the thing caught in the web, you’re the thing--you know--catching it? But you’re just as fucking stuck as it is?”

Jon doesn’t say anything, but Martin can hear him breathing. “I think...I think I’m whatever’s caught,” Jon says, finally. “You don’t sound well.”

“You’re one to fucking talk,” Martin says, unable to suppress a faintly hysterical snort. 

“Please come,” Jon says. “You can stay over. You  _ should _ . You’ll probably want to after we, uh, talk.”

“Only if I get your bed,” Martin says, sort of reflexively because he doesn’t want to sleep in his binder, not actually expecting Jon to agree.

“That’s fine,” Jon says. 

“Oh,” Martin says. “Alright.”

“Just--well--we’ll go over which doors definitely exist when you get here,” Jon says, and Martin has absolutely no idea how to respond to that or what that even means, and he’s too tired to ask, and that cold fog is sort of making his body feel heavy and numb, and--

“Actually, I--I don’t know,” Martin says, scrabbling for a lie, a reason to stay in, it’s what he does best after all, and he starts to-- “My mum, uh--”

“Martin.” Jon’s voice is firm, but soft, like he sees right through Martin, even over the phone, and it makes Martin gasp softly. “Please.”

Maybe Martin’s the thing caught in the web after all. How is he supposed to resist that?

“Yeah, yes, al--alright, I’ll be there,” Martin says, shaking it off and getting up before anything in his shit brain can drag him back down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys always make my day and I genuinely love everyone who comments from the bottom of my heart, you make it so much fun to write. Thank you.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...hi it's your friend Eli again here with...the fourth chapter in four days...honestly I'm seeing how long I can keep this streak up before I crash and burn lmao. Also, hey, I know I say this every time, but I. Love. You. Guys. You all make me so happy! You're so sweet! I air kiss my computer screen at your comments! I hope you keep enjoying this ridiculous nonsense!

“So,” Martin says, staring blankly at the table between him and Jon, brain whirring a little, trying to process, “alright, so, you’re saying they--they feed on fear, and the show is...it’s going to cause--more fear, and therefore sustain them?”

“Yes,” Jon says. “Well. That’s my assumption based on the information I’ve been presented with, yes.”

“Then why would they try to kill you? If you’re helping them?” Martin asks, looking back up at Jon, who blinks like he hadn’t thought of that.

“I...uh,” Jon says, brow furrowing. “Good question. Maybe they aren’t? Nothing--I mean, the thing that happened with the--the--the door, it wasn’t necessarily trying to kill me, maybe it just wanted to…? I don’t know.”

“There are worse things than death,” says someone behind Martin, and Martin whirls around and nearly knocks himself out of his chair. The Goth from the stairwell flashes him devil horns.

“How did--you weren’t here a minute ago, and the door--” Martin sputters. “Jon?”

“Yes, that’s, uh, that’s Gerry,” Jon says. “He’s the one who told me about all this.”

“Oh, so you’re trusting a random fucking Hot Topic cashier?” Martin asks, voice rising substantially in pitch.

“Ouch,” Gerry says, flatly.

“He’s a ghost,” Jon says, tiredly, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Georgie agreed with me that he’s a ghost, and I trust her more than anyone, so--”

“Hold up, Georgie? Georgie--Barker, the--so you  _ do _ know her? Why wouldn’t you-- _ what _ ?” Martin asks. 

“We dated for years in uni,” Jon says, waving a hand dismissively, like that isn’t a bombshell.

“ _ What _ ?” Martin asks.

“Right?” Gerry asks, smirking.

“How are you taking this harder than ‘there are twelve massively powerful entities that consume fear’?” Jon asks, flatly, crossing his arms.

“I’m--I’m not, that’s just...I don’t know, surprising,” Martin says, shrugging defensively. “I’m still processing the whole ‘entity’ thing.” The words come naturally, but as he thinks about it, he realizes he isn’t actually processing it, he’s already processed and accepted it.

It feels...true. Like he’s always known it. It makes sense as a natural part of the world, somehow, that the only real gods are monstrous and sustain themselves on suffering. 

“That’s fair,” Jon says. “It is...a lot. I’m still processing it myself, I...it’s overwhelming, isn’t it?”

And he does genuinely look overwhelmed, like he’s swallowing down bile, eyes closed against the thought, shoulders hunched. Martin wants to help, wants to be the strong, understanding confidant, but doesn’t really know what to say.

“You get used to it,” Gerry says, sounding a little bored. “I guess I don’t really know, since I grew up with it, but I figure it gets easier. Well. You haven’t had a Real Encounter yet, so, I don’t know, I guess you could flip your shit and lose it. But short of that, I think it’ll get better.”

“Comforting,” Martin says, tightly. “Sorry, Ghost Gerry, what’s your deal, again? Is anyone gonna tell me?”

Gerry sighs. “I’ve already been through the whole spiel once, and I don’t feel like you’ll be around long enough for it to be worth going through again.”

“Sorry, what’s  _ that _ supposed to mean?” Martin asks.

“We have to stop doing the show,” Jon says, shrugging. “Obviously. I don’t particularly want to be responsible for--giving dread gods human fear snacks.”

“So--so what, so this-- _ ghost _ , who, by the way, are you  _ sure _ he’s a ghost? Because he just--”

“You  _ fucking people _ ,” Gerry groans, before walking straight into a wall and leaving the room.

“--okay, maybe he’s a ghost, but--you’re really going to give up your show just because some ghost told you it was feeding fear go-- _ fuck _ , everything I’m saying sounds insane, doesn’t it,” Martin says, laughing, leaning his face into his hands.

“They’re real, Martin,” Jon says, softly. “It’s real. You have no reason to trust me. We don’t know each other and I’ve been particularly nasty, but. This is all real. And we can’t be part of it.”

“But--” Martin starts, and then sighs and stops. Obviously Jon’s right, he’s not sure why he’s fighting it so hard, except for the fact that this was the first decently interesting creative job he was able to lie his way into, and because he likes Jon, and because, fuckit, having a little goddamn  _ intrigue _ is at least a change, at least plucking a string in the web he’s frozen in. 

“But?” Jon asks, raising an eyebrow.

“But nothing,” Martin says, sighing. “You’re right. We should talk to Bouchard and Tim.”

“I’ll text them,” Jon says, nodding and pulling his phone out. 

“Uh, do you want a drink?” Martin asks. “I think...I think I need a fucking drink.”

Jon smiles at him, tired and a little weak, but genuine. “I shouldn’t, but. I’ll join you. Don’t really have a particular interest in sleeping, if I’m honest.”

*

The night is tilting and there is such a disconnect between the things Martin thinks and the things he says that he wonders whether he’s actually in control of himself or if he ever is. He really fucking hates drinking and he doesn’t know why he does it.

He and Jon have been sitting on the floor talking for what seems like it’s been hours, but Martin remembers almost none of it. He feels tears burning his eyes, and tries to blink them back, tries to pull the thread in his mind loose and figure out where it’s coming from, what the fuck they’re talking about, why--

It’s no use, really. The labyrinth dead-ends and he has to systematically work his way back to the present, where Jon’s asking--

“What are you  _ afraid of _ , though, and I don’t mean--I don’t mean the banal bullshit, I don’t mean fucking clowns, I mean  _ cosmic fears _ .”

“You’re terrified of spiders,” Martin says, suppressing a snort. “How’s that not banal bullshit?”

Jon’s face goes completely dark. “Fine. Never mind.”

“No, no, I’m sorry,” Martin says. “I think--well, I guess everyone’s afraid of--I don’t want to die alone.”

“Good thing to be afraid of,” Gerry says, and Martin blinks. Hadn’t even realized he was there. He’s sitting on the floor a few feet away from them, knee pulled to his chest, watching them like they’re a faintly interesting TV show. “Fucking sucks.”

“You died alone, then?”

“I can’t even use being trashed as an excuse for saying something this on-brand for how I look, but--everyone dies alone,” Gerry says, rubbing at his eyebrow. “I mean, yeah, I was actually alone, but it wouldn’t have mattered if the room was packed. The moment you realize you’re well and truly fucked, nothing else matters. No one and nothing.”

Gerry looks  _ young _ , all of a sudden, young and sad and maybe a little scared, even now, and Martin’s heart aches. “I’m sorry,” he says, softly, feeling his eyes fill with tears again, and Gerry looks at him and makes a disgusted noise, turning his attention to Jon, who’s watching silently.

“This one’s soft,” Gerry says, pointing at Martin. “Bad to be soft in this neck of reality.”

Martin starts to sputter something to the effect of ‘fuck you, you rude little discount Way brother, I’m not’, but Jon starts speaking before he can get coherent.

“I don’t know that it is,” Jon says, slowly, unfairly thoughtfully considering the half a bottle of cheap, borderline poisonous gin in his system. “I think--compassion--why wouldn’t that be an asset against fear?”

“The person who dealt with the entities the best didn’t give a shit about anyone,” Gerry says. “I’m just going based off experience.”

“And where are they now?” Jon asks.

Gerry smirks. “Honestly, good question. She...yeah, I don’t know. I don’t--why don’t I  _ know _ ?” Gerry blinks, smirk immediately fading, squinting and staring at the floor in focus. He eventually gets up and walks out through a wall, no explanation.

Jon’s phone dings, and he pulls it out and closes an eye, holding the screen millimeters away from his face. “Oh fuck,” he says.

“What?” Martin asks, yawning.

“Well, the--so--Bouchard wants everyone in the network to have-- _ brunch _ ?” Jon asks.

“Ugh. When.”

“In…” Jon squints harder. “Jesus.” He drops the phone and falls back on the floor with a thud. “Seven hours.”

Martin groans forcefully. “Do we have to, though.”

“Yes. Martin. Yes. We have to officially resign from our jobs as fucking. Fear foodtruck operators. Yes.” 

“ _ Fuck _ .”

“I know.”

“No, but, Jon,  _ fuck _ , though.”

“Yes, Martin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter is, in my brain, officially titled Bureaucratic Hell Brunch. brace yourself for the unholy combination of tim stoker, elias bouchard, and mimosas.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came out radically stupid despite my excitement to write it lmao, I hope you enjoy regardless! (Also I got exposed to covid and have to stay home so you better believe this unholy writing/posting streak is gonna continue lol)

It takes five alarms, a not insignificant amount of yelling and/or groaning, and Martin falling asleep sitting up, but Jon and Martin make it to brunch, only fifteen minutes late and looking like hell itself.

Tim winks at them and waves them over when they get to the restaurant--which is, by the way, quite a bit posher than Martin was expecting, he’s not sure what kind of budget Bouchard  _ should _ be operating on, but this is...nicer than it. Tim’s sitting next to a pretty, faintly bored-looking woman Martin assumes is Sasha, and as they approach, the man with his back to them turns around to say hello.

Elias Bouchard is...striking. His eyes look out of place in his face, light and sharp, and when they land on Martin, Martin has the uncanny sense of being appraised, like Elias can see straight through him. 

He smiles at whatever he sees. “You must be Martin Blackwood, then?” he asks, and Martin stammers out what could probably be interpreted as a yes. “Always nice to have a little diversity these days.”

Martin makes a face at that before he can stop himself. “Sorry, what’s that supposed to--”

“It’s a joke,” Tim says, also making a face at Elias. “You’re the only white boy. Could’ve been better worded.”

“Oh,” Martin says, flushing a little. “Sorry. I thought--” Even if the joke wasn’t about him being trans, he’s acutely aware of how he’s presenting now. He tries to shift his shoulders to adjust his binder, scratches the side of his face, Elias’s eyes still boring into him. 

“Please, sit,” Elias says, affably, waving an arm at the two empty seats.

Martin glances over at Jon as they sit down. Aside from looking barely conscious and ready to drop dead, Jon seems  _ determined _ , seething with some kind of energy, attention fixed solely on Elias.

“Hi, Martin,” Sasha says, smiling at Martin and giving him a small wave, which he returns with the best smile he can manage. “Jon, you look awful.”

“Yes, thank you,” Jon says, attention not flickering to her at all. 

“So, Jon, you wanted to speak to us?” Elias asks, cocking his head and taking what can only be described as a Delicate Sip of a mimosa. The concept of alcohol makes Martin press a hand to his mouth and squeeze his eyes shut for a moment. 

“Yes,” Jon says, a little dazedly. He blinks it out. “Yes, I did. I--I learned something that I believe to be true that--I can’t do the show anymore, and Sasha, frankly, I don’t think you should do the Forbidden Section anymore either.”

Sasha raises an eyebrow as Tim scoffs. “And your reasoning is…?” she asks. Martin watches Elias, who seems to be trying unsuccessfully to cover up a smirk with his champagne flute. Something about him makes the pit of Martin’s stomach drop out, and that  _ stuck _ feeling creeps over his body, making him shudder, once, violently, which draws everyone’s attention to him.

He waves it away wordlessly, looking back at Jon.

“There are--well,  _ gods _ isn’t quite the right word,” Jon starts, sighing. “Powerful beings. Entities. And they create and are in turn sustained by our fears, and somehow--somehow I’ve gotten caught up in--in them, and my show is--or will be, or--I’m not sure--but it’s feeding them, and I have to stop, I can’t be part of that.”

“Fear gods,” Elias says, softly, cocking his head like he’s listening intently, sympathetically. “And...well, how many are there, Jon? Surely they’re countless, to represent every human fear?”

“As I understand it, it’s more--categories,” Jon says. “The, uh, the person who told me about them, he  _ said _ there were fourteen, but only listed twelve, so--there’s twelve, I think.”

“Only twelve?” Elias asks.

“Does one of them include clowns?” Tim asks, a strange expression furrowing his face, looking ill but also deeply involved. Sasha side-eyes him with concern, and looks back to Jon, visibly curious.

“I don’t know,” Jon says. “I think so, yes.”

“And who told you about these-- _ entities _ , Jon?” Elias asks. 

“That’s...why does that matter?” Jon asks, defensively, and Martin wonders for a moment why he’s covering for Gerry before he remembers that,  _ right _ , most people don’t actually believe in ghosts, and just saying ‘Gerry’ probably wouldn’t be all that helpful.

Elias sort of clicks his tongue sympathetically. “Jon, are you feeling alright? You don’t look well.”

Jon hardens completely. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? This is--well, I would do this privately, but we’re here, and I think everyone here would second my assertion that you’re behaving... _ erratically _ ,” Elias says, and Martin’s heart jumps, feeling him gearing up for something like the first slope of a roller coaster. “When I first considered adding you to the network, I had Ms. James run a background check on you--she’s very good with computers, as you know--”

“ _ No-- _ ” Jon starts, but Elias doesn’t stop talking.

“--and Jon, if you’re...well, if you’re  _ deteriorating _ again, then you’re certainly right that you shouldn’t be doing the show. We can get you help,” he says, and there is something close to sick delight glimmering behind those out-of-place eyes. “It would be a shame for you to end up back--”

“ _ Stop _ it, I’m not--I’m not fucking delusional,” Jon spits, slamming the table and making the silverware rattle, briefly turning heads around them. “I’m not delusional, I’m not high, I am  _ perfectly fucking sane _ .”

“Alright, Jon,” Elias says, still completely calm. “Then who told you about the  _ fear gods _ ?” The derision in his tone makes Martin want to scream, and he looks to Sasha and Tim, who both look fairly inscrutable, eyes flicking from Jon to Elias like they’re a really high-stakes tennis match.

“Gerard Keay,” Jon sighs, and Martin registers genuine surprise in Elias’s face, briefly cracking the facade.

“Gerard Keay’s been dead for years,” Elias says. 

“You know him, then?” Jon asks.

“Knew him, yes,” Elias says. “I used to run a documentary production company. He assisted a woman who worked for me. As I said, however, he’s dead.”

“Yes,” Jon says, nodding. “He is.”

“So, you’re telling me that a dead man told you about fourteen--or twelve--massively powerful beings that cause and consume fear, and that  _ you _ , Jonathan Sims, are somehow feeding them, and because of this, you want to stop doing your show?” Elias asks, crossing his arms.

“That’s a good summation, yes.”

“He’s telling the truth,” Martin says. Mutters. All eyes flick to him. “I mean, I met Gerr-Gerard. So I at least know he’s telling the truth about that. And the entities--I think--I think there’s something to that.”

“I believe Jon,” Tim says, eyes flickering away from Martin. “Something--something fucking unearthly happened to my--to me. So. Much of a prick as he is, I think he’s right. I mean, Sasha--we’ve seen some weird shit doing the show, right?”

“Yeah,” Sasha says, slowly, but she doesn’t look convinced. “So, what, you want to stop?”

“I--I don’t know,” Tim says, shrugging. 

“I’ll save you the painful deliberation,” Elias says, smirking and twirling his glass between his fingers. “You can’t stop. None of you can. You’ve all signed contracts, I hope you recall? Well. All of you except Martin. And they’re not easy contracts to break.”

“If I say I  _ am _ having a mental break, can I stop?” Jon asks, and Elias scoffs.

“Oh, Jon.” He downs the rest of his mimosa. “No. No, you can’t.”

“You know about the entities, don’t you,” Martin says. “Do you--do you  _ work _ for them?”

“Do I  _ work for _ fear gods?” Elias asks, shaking his head. “You all sound insane. You’re feeding each other’s paranoid delusions. I’ve been told that working with  _ creatives  _ would eventually get this strange, but…” He clicks his tongue and sighs.

Tim’s hand closes around a butter knife. “But  _ do _ you work for them, though?” Sasha gently puts her hand over Tim's, and he releases the knife.

Elias laughs, throwing his head back. “Fuck, you people are  _ something _ .  _ Yes _ , Tim,  _ yes _ , I work for the twelve to fourteen evil beings that cause all of humanity’s fear. We have a Slack. We coordinate mass tragedies. Come  _ on _ , really.”

“Who’s Peter Lukas, and why is he sponsoring the network?” Jon asks.

“Some rich sailor who wants to fill his apartment building, Jon, I don’t  _ know _ ,” Elias says, but it’s a fairly bad lie and one he clearly wasn’t expecting to have to tell. “I think we’re done here. Martin, if you want to walk away, you can, and I think I would, after this fucking display of collective delusion.”

“You  _ should _ leave while you can, Martin,” Jon says, softly. “For your own sake.”

“You know what?” Martin says. “No. I’m here now, I might as well stick around, I can’t exactly go back to having a regular life.”

“You should try,” Jon says.

“Do you have your contract?” Martin asks Elias, completely ignoring Jon.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Elias says, admiration in his voice. “I thought we were going to have an amicable, pleasant brunch and you could sign it.”

“Give it to me,” Martin says.

“ _ Martin _ ,” Jon says, eyes flashing dark. 

Elias digs in a briefcase and hands Martin a binder-clipped stack of paper. Martin doesn’t even read it, just signs on every line and hands it back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the record elias was 100% not lying about Entity Slack


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look. Guys. Your Reactions. Elias is allowed to say fuck as a treat, alright, he's a nasty little goblin man and he should speak like it. ANYWAY this chapter is very Oops All Dialogue and I've also finally decided to earn my Tim/Sasha tag at least a little. Hope you enjoy!

Elias leaves without paying after Martin signs the contract, with some airy comment about  _ too much hostility so early in the day _ , and the rest of them sit there, not speaking for a moment.

Sasha breaks the silence with “So you really aren’t fucking around, Jon?”

“I am  _ deadly _ serious about all of this,” Jon says, sighing and rubbing his forehead. “I don’t--that wasn’t  _ right _ .”

“He’s guilty as  _ shit _ ,” Tim says. “I don’t know what he’s guilty of, but he’s definitely--he’s  _ shifty _ .”

“So--alright, I have questions,” Sasha says, putting her elbows on the table and leaning forward in concentration. “I think--we should make a list of questions we need answered and go from there, right?”

“Like what?” Martin asks.

“Like...well, firstly, if Elias knows about all this, what’s his stake in it?” Sasha asks. “Why are we part of it? I mean, feeding the entities, obviously, I guess, but I don’t know how my show would do that--and with yours, isn’t it just...well, if the entities cause the fear that your guests are recounting, isn’t that sort of like eating their own vomit? Like gross cats?”

“More like leftovers, isn’t it?” Tim asks, flicking a knife in circles. “Like they worked really hard in the kitchen to create that sweet gourmet hit of pure fear from the person they fucked with, and then the fear they cause other people by telling their story is, y’know, a badly nuked hangover breakfast.”

“It’s just base sustenance, probably,” Jon says, shrugging. “They have to keep themselves going.”

“Why, though? Why would they need us? Shouldn’t they all be massively powerful? People are scared  _ all the time _ ,” Sasha says. “Of everything.”

“Yeah, but this is different, though,” Tim says. “The kind of fear they  _ actively _ construct is the kind of shit that puts you inches away from your family institutionalizing you because they can’t ignore you anymore.”

“Sorry, you’ve only just heard about them, how are you--?” Martin asks, and Tim’s eyes flick up to him.

“What happened to me was impossible and the scariest shit you’ve ever seen in your life and I thought I’d lost my mind until this morning,” Tim says, firmly. “I’m fully on-board, alright? Don’t question it.”

“What happened?” Jon asks, cocking his head and looking at Tim. 

“That’s level 5 friend material, mate, you have negative XP, so, good luck,” Tim says, shaking his head. “It doesn’t really matter.”

“I’m just--I’m curious,” Jon says. “How old were you?”

“What?” Tim asks, squinting at him.

“Just--how long ago was this?”

Tim blinks, looking a little angry. “Few years ago. Why?”

“Uh, n-no reason,” Jon says. “Had sort of a theory but. Not anymore.”

“You saw something, didn’t you?” Martin asks, slowly, thinking back on their interactions over the last few days, the utter relief in Jon’s voice upon finding out that there were  _ real horrors _ in the world, all the comments about his mental health. 

Look, it’s not an earth-shattering revelation, but he’s so hungover he could vomit on the table and he just potentially signed his life over to a servant of dread gods, so, y’know, cut him some slack, he’s trying.

“Possibly,” Jon says. “Yes. I think so.”

“Share with the class, then, Jonathan,” Tim says.

“I’d...rather not.”

“Oh, how the turns table,” Tim says, making a truly shitty face at Jon. 

“This is all very X-Files, except I’m not particularly sure I want to believe, actually,” Sasha says, sighing and reaching into the bag at her feet. She pulls out her laptop and opens it, chin resting in her hand, getting sucked into something. Martin can’t see her screen, but Tim seems to be watching whatever she’s doing.

“That’s fine, you can be Scully,” Tim says, watching her. “I always thought David Duchovny was pretty, uh... _ Fox-y _ in that show, so--”

Sasha, without looking, puts her free hand over Tim’s mouth. “You’re not allowed to continue this bit.”

Tim licks her hand and she pulls it away, yelping in disgust. “Sorry, do you not want me to get to the part where I say you’re hotter than Gillian Anderson?”

“Absolute lie, no one’s hotter than Gillian Anderson,” Sasha says, vacantly, clearly wrapped up in her furious typing. 

Jon and Martin sort of awkwardly watch as Tim and Sasha fall into their own thing, until Jon glances at Martin and softly says “You shouldn’t have signed that.”

“We don’t know each other well enough for you to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do, actually, Jon,” Martin snaps, and the words come out of him naturally and quickly. He blinks in surprise at himself. “Uh--I--I’m sorry, I--”

“No, you’re right,” Jon says, looking a little surprised but not put out in any way. “It’s your life, and I suppose if you want to be...part of whatever nightmare this is, that’s your prerogative, just...why?”

The question catches at Martin, like a fishing line cast down his throat, yanking the words up out of his vocal cords, and he tries to swallow them down, but he can’t quite make it in time. “I like you, and you seem like the sort of person that gets into really horrible situations when no one’s looking out for you.”

He doesn’t know if it’s even true, but it feels true as he’s saying it. Martin takes care of people, it’s what he  _ does _ , and this is at least giving him the ability to choose the person he throws in with, rather than just...being trapped with the person who gave birth to him, trying to repay the debt of a life he doesn’t even particularly fucking want most of the time.

“Oh,” Jon says, blinking rapidly and looking away from Martin. “Uh, I--I--huh.”

The non-response makes Martin’s heart sink quickly, and he looks in the opposite direction as Jon, watching people pass on the street outside the restaurant and suddenly feeling profoundly alone, cold fog IV-dripping into his veins.

“Maybe it  _ was _ fucking stupid,” Martin says, softly, rubbing a spot on his leg vigorously, trying not to shudder at the cold his idiot brain is making him feel.

“No, that’s--” Jon starts, then sighs, running both hands back over his head. “Martin, that’s very--that’s sweet, and you’re right that I--I can get--and I--I li--”

“Oh,  _ what the fuck _ ,” Sasha blurts, suddenly, cutting Jon off. Both of them immediately turn to her. “Tim, you--you see it, right?”

“Yeah,” Tim says, eyes wide. “That’s...alright, that’s...is that a thing that can happen naturally?”

“Does someone want to explain?” Martin snaps.

“Uh, well, so, I did some cursory looking into Elias just now, and found a picture of him from uni that I guess someone he knew posted on Facebook cuz they were in it, and…” Sasha turns the screen around, and Jon and Martin both lean in to look closer, their shoulders bumping.

The Elias in the picture is young, pretty, decidedly twink-ish, and Martin doesn’t see the issue at first, until Jon inhales sharply and leans back, a hand over his mouth, and then he catches it.

Elias’s eyes in the picture are soft and dark, a far cry from the light, piercing, hungry eyes of the man Martin just met.

“That definitely doesn’t happen naturally,” Martin says, getting a little bit of a dizzy headrush at the thought of--well, the fact that he doesn’t exactly  _ know _ makes it more overwhelming.

Sasha turns her computer back around. “Curioser and curioser,” she says, biting her lip and starting to type again.

“Hey, it  _ is _ like Alice in Wonderland,” Tim says. “Jon’s the posh asshole who berates people about punctuality and we’re all following him into a nightmarish LSD hell-world.”

“I call Queen of Hearts,” Sasha says. 

“Definitely I want to be the caterpillar, I think that guy knew what was up, just sitting on a leaf getting fucking blazed 24/7,” Tim says. “Guess that makes you Alice, then, Blackwood.”

“We’re all mad here,” Jon says, drily. “Sasha, look up Peter Lukas.”

“That’s what I was doing already,” Sasha says.

“We should make like, one of those red-string corkboards,” Tim says. “Y’know. Like, uh, Pepe Silva.”

“I was really good at those in uni,” Jon says. “I even--uh. Well. Doesn’t matter. Point is, yes. Why not. We’re incredibly deep in the weeds here, why not make it a full-on conspiracy theory bingo?”

“That’s the spirit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you guys are the best and I love you all <3


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I won't lie I actually quite like this chapter, even if it is just me retelling the Mr. Spider episode plus jonmartin fluff. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it lol

Mysteries unravel, red strings get very carefully laced between thumbtacks, and Martin feels, for the first time in his life, like he’s  _ part of something _ . For a week, he and Jon and Tim and Sasha have been sort of just existing at each other, all working on pulling at the edges of the world until hopefully the cover comes down and they see things like they actually are.

It’s not going particularly well--Martin actually gets the uncanny feeling that they’re just twisting themselves tighter into a web, actually--but it’s sort of... _ fun _ . He stays nights at Jon’s, neither of them wanting to be alone in the dark with all the great horrors of the world, and he suspects Tim and Sasha are doing the same, except it’s probably substantially warmer and a tad more, uh, intimate with them.

Mostly, they’re dead-ending. Nothing more about Elias on the internet, save for reviews and blog posts about the documentaries his old company produced, which aren’t too helpful, and nothing at all about Peter Lukas, aside from the ads the network does.

One notable absence, though: Martin hasn’t seen Gerry since the night he met him, not even a flash, which Jon seems faintly concerned about. The genuine worry for another person (who isn’t even  _ alive _ ) makes Martin feel slight pangs of jealousy, which, yes, he does hate himself for, thanks.

Tim and Sasha leave frustrated at Jon one evening, and as the door closes, Jon sighs and stares at the frankly concerning corkboard he won’t let anyone else touch. They have the twelve entities pinned up, things related to them around them.

“There has to be something we’re missing,” Jon says, irritably, sitting down hard on the floor and drumming his fingers on the ground next to him. He hasn’t seemed all that well for the last few days, clearly not sleeping, not showering, barely eating, his energy level that of a vaguely aggravated elderly sloth. 

Martin’s worried about him, worried he’s going into some kind of spiral, but he’s not sure what to do about it other than continually force-feed him tea. He’s mostly watching out for--well, he’s not sure, but based on Jon’s reactions to things, it’s not hard to tell he used to have drug issues, and Martin’s stomach drops out every time he starts to have suspicions. 

“How d’you mean?” Martin asks, keeping his voice as Energetic And Positive as he can manage, sitting down next to Jon.

“I mean...I mean, this can’t possibly cover the scope of human fears, Gerry must’ve been  _ missing _ some,” Jon says. “I don’t think--nothing here would really cover--” He cuts himself off, shakes his head, and sighs.

“Nothing here would cover what you saw?” Martin asks, not looking at Jon, voice getting a little small, sure he’s overstepping some boundary.

“Exactly,” Jon says, looking at Martin, who looks back at him. “We’re missing something, because I can’t go back to believing--to not--to not being able to trust myself at all.”

“Do you--do you want to talk about it?” Martin asks, softly, and Jon blinks away from him.

“I--” He cuts himself off and laughs a little, shaking his head. “I haven’t talked to anyone about it since the hospital.”

“Well,” Martin says, biting his lip and shrugging. “Maybe I could help you figure it out.”

“When I was--when I was eight...I was an odd child, and--”

“ _ You _ ?” Martin asks, unable to stop himself, chin quivering as he tries to hold back a smile. Jon smiles too, and Martin’s heart explodes.

“I know, truly unbelievable,” Jon says. “Look, my parents were very dead and my grandmother didn’t particularly want me and I sort of imagined I was the protagonist of some great story to deal with it all. I just...got a little too invested in the story and mostly stopped interacting with the--the real world, I guess.”

“I get that,” Martin says, desperately,  _ desperately _ wanting to take his hand and squeeze it. “I was sort of the same. I mean, only my dad was dead, but my mum--uh--well, yeah. I get it.”

“Point is, I...well, long story short, I ended up with this book,” Jon says. “A Guest for Mr. Spider."

“...I think I see where this might be going,” Martin says.

“I’m not sure you do,” Jon says, laughing humorlessly. “I’m not sure anyone could. The book was...fucking terrifying, as children’s literature goes, it was...well, Mr. Spider was scary as hell and he ate people and it was never enough, and he wanted more. That’s the gist. Except, I--well, I guess I wandered off while reading, and…” He sighs. 

“It’s--it’s alright if you don’t want to tell me,” Martin says, an odd feeling of suspense tight in his chest. 

“No, I do,” Jon says. “For--for some reason, I really do.”

“Okay,” Martin says.

“There was this man, this--well, boy, but he was ten years older than me, so I thought of him as a man, and he--he wasn’t  _ good _ to me. Beat me up sometimes, mocked me constantly, but in the narrative I made my life, that was just a necessary obstacle, and someday I would get magic powers and kill him,” Jon says, matter-of-factly, and Martin almost laughs.

“Yeah, I...I know the feeling,” he says, thinking about the girls in secondary school who gutted him daily within an inch of his life for sport. Never beat him up, but never had to. He  _ dreamed _ about going full Carrie on them constantly.

“He knocked the book out of my hands, started giving me shit for reading a kid’s book, but then he-- _ saw _ it, and…” Jon bites his lip, shoulders hunching. “It took him over. He just--walked off, reading it, and I had this feeling, like I  _ had _ to have it back, so I followed him.”

A sickening feeling creeps over Martin, but it’s not the dread or concern of sympathetic listening, like he’d expect, it’s almost...delight. He tries not to dwell on it because it horrifies him, that he’s--that he-- “Where did he go?” he asks Jon, the words falling out unbidden, goading Jon on so he doesn’t stop, doesn’t leave whatever’s building in Martin half-finished.

“A--a door. A random door, I don’t...I couldn’t find it again,” Jon says. “And it was dark inside and he’d--he’d had spiderweb wrapped around him the whole time, and I just hadn’t seen it, and--and legs reached out from the darkness, giant-- _ giant _ spider legs, Martin, you have no idea, and--” Jon stops, shaking his head, hugging his shoulders. “Well. That was that.”

The strange rush in Martin’s body hits him full force, leaving him a little dizzy, almost high with it, and he takes a few breaths to try and shove it down, because he can’t reconcile it with what Jon told him, he doesn’t  _ understand _ . “I...that’s horrible,” he says, simply.

“So you see why I don’t like spiders,” Jon says, pulling at his hair. 

“I think--I think you’re right,” Martin says. “That we’re missing one, I mean--one that would...you know,  _ explain _ that. Because, I--” He tries to tell Jon about the spiderweb in his bathroom, and about the profoundly stuck feeling, the feeling of being constantly caught in a web, but he can’t make himself. Sounds a little insane, really. He finally manages “Just...I think you’re onto something.”

“Thank you,” Jon says. “I--I appreciate you listening. And--and believing me. No one’s ever actually believed me before.”

Martin smiles at him, weakly, as best he can. He might need more sleep then he’s been getting, because when he blinks he swears for a second he can see strands of something wrapped tightly around Jon’s limbs, briefly glistening in the light, but he blinks again and they disappear. 

“Of course I believe you,” Martin says, softly. “Everything’s so fucking weird, why wouldn’t I?”

“So we’re in agreement, then, that--the spider, or--whatever it is--is another entity?”

“Yeah,” Martin says. “Sure, yes, makes sense.”

“Great,” Jon says, sounding genuinely relieved. “I just...now I just wish we knew more about Elias, I wish--I don’t know where Gerry went, now that we could really  _ use _ him.”

“Who knows,” Martin says, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “Maybe he’s gone. Ghosts do that, right?”

“I suppose,” Jon says, shrugging. “I can text Georgie about that, she’d know.”

“Did Georgie believe your story?” Martin asks, curiosity and jealousy having a bit of a fight in his tone. 

“I could never tell,” Jon says. “I think...I think she might’ve, but as everything started to fall apart, she probably just...gave up believing me.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin says, softly.

“It’s all in the past now,” Jon says. “Truly, I--I’m much better now than I was. It’s nice to not--to not be alone.” His hand is on the floor between them, fingers still drumming, and Martin stares at it for a moment, considering if he’s really brave enough--

The world’s full of evil gods and they might be working for an eldritch being with weird eyes and Martin has done a lot scarier things in his life than hold someone he has a crush on’s hand. He reaches down and takes Jon’s hand, staring at the wall, anxiety speeding his heart up a lot.

Jon makes a breathless, startled noise, and looks at Martin with wide eyes, lips parted like he’s going to say something. Mercifully, he doesn’t, just closes his mouth again and looks away, squeezing Martin’s hand, both of them blushing furiously.

They sit there, both clearly too scared to say anything, until Martin lets go to anxiously scratch his neck.

“Fuck, I’m hungry,” Jon says, laughing nervously, also pulling his hand back.

“But you just ate,” Martin says, squinting at him, confused. He’d been surprised and reassured by how well Jon had eaten, actually, considering that usually he was like a tiny bird.

“Oh,” Jon says, squinting at the floor. “I--I did, didn’t I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (web!martin rights)  
> anyway don't worry about gerry he's fine he'll be back in the next chapter (which i'm excited to write). you cannot get rid of me. this has been a chapter a day for a week straight and i am gonna keep steamrolling.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish this were spookier than it is considering that it's chapter 13 but alas, no, it's just Jon having a really bad time. Hope you enjoy!

Jon is-- _ hungry _ isn’t the right word for it, really, because hunger implies that satiation is possible, yet no matter how much food he shoves into his tiny, shriveled stomach it doesn’t get  _ better _ .

He’s ravenous, desperate, fucking  _ voracious _ , and thinking of synonyms to try and distract himself from the fact that he has to force himself to vomit because he’s made himself sick trying to make it stop.

He doesn’t think about what the feeling reminds him of. He can’t let himself. It’s probably just some--some weird flu, some illness, some--or, it could be the entities fucking with him, that’s always possible, but he’s shaking and weak and so, so frustrated that he can’t make it stop. 

Martin’s out, gone to the store or his flat or  _ something _ , Jon tried to listen but the words tangled in his mind and he couldn’t really hear over the furious aching in the core of his being. Jon’s glad he’s gone, doesn’t want to think of the small, sad look on his face if he saw Jon knelt on his bathroom floor like this.

Unsurprisingly, purging doesn’t actually help. Doesn’t make it worse, doesn’t make it better, just makes him feel a little disgusting. He sits on his bedroom floor in his boxers and one of Georgie’s ancient abandoned t-shirts and smokes and tries to deny the hunger. Tries to will it away, like it’s a telemarketer, whatever it’s selling, he doesn’t need it. 

He hasn’t  _ craved _ this bad in a long time. He wants more than anything to believe this kind of feeling isn’t something his own brain could just force on him, not after years away from it, but maybe he’s just kidding himself. Even if the entities aren’t real, he can’t blame  _ everything _ on them, he’s still broken.

He wishes Martin were there with him. Wishes they could play one of their bitchy games of Scrabble or have one of their conversations that starts out about something relatively normal and innocent and ends with Jon talking about something like how free will probably doesn’t exist while Martin watches him with an eyebrow raised and his chin quivering a little.

Jon  _ likes _ having Martin around, and it’s a strange feeling, considering how content he was to be utterly and completely alone after Georgie. He knows--he knows there’s  _ something _ , with them, even if they avoid talking about it. Martin’s started taking his hand somewhat regularly when they’re not talking, and every time Jon gets just as flushed and involuntarily excited.

Thinking about Martin makes the hunger a little better, but only for a moment, and then it kicks back with a vengeance, setting deep into his bones, and he starts biting at the hairtie around his wrist and letting it snap back against his skin as a distraction between drags.

Either he loses time or reality is tearing in new and interesting ways, because he blinks and Gerry’s sitting next to him like he’s been there for hours, eyes vacant and staring off into space, like he doesn’t even know Jon’s there.

“Gerry?” Jon says, softly, and Gerry blinks out of it. 

“I--uh--wow,” Gerry says. “You look awful.”

“I could say the same,” Jon says, face furrowing a little in concern. “Where have you been? We haven’t seen you in over a week, and we could really use--”

“What?” Gerry asks. “I was just here.”

“You weren’t,” Jon says. “You haven’t been. Unless you’ve just been invisible, or whatever ghosts do, I don’t know.”

“I…” Gerry shakes his head. “Fuck. Weird.”

“I need to ask you--well, a lot of things, actually,” Jon starts, gearing up for the list he has memorized, but Gerry puts his hand up between them.

“No, n-n-n-no, unh-uh, do  _ not _ do that to me,” Gerry says. “I’m perfectly capable of answering without assistance, thank you.”

“What?” Jon asks, blinking and cocking his head in confusion.

“You don’t need to pull it out of me, that’s all I mean,” Gerry says. “I want to help. You haven’t got a  _ better  _ shot than Gertrude, but you’ve got  _ a  _ shot, and I guess that’s what matters.”

“Gertrude?” Jon asks. The name rings a bell, something Sasha found on Elias’s old company, an old lady documentarian with--and he’s so fixated on trying to remember that the rest of Gerry’s sentence takes a second to register. “Wait, a shot at  _ what _ ?"

“Destroying them,” Gerry says, shrugging. “If it’s even possible. Stopping them from ending the world.”

“Wh--is that what Elias hired me for?” Jon asks, confused. “Wait,  _ how _ ?”

Gerry laughs, teeth bared a little in what looks more like a grimace than actual amusement. “Elias Bouchard doesn’t give a  _ fuck _ about the world.”

“Then why did you work for him? You know  _ better _ , don’t you?” Jon asks, a little bitter about the lack of direct answers, and Gerry grits his teeth and raises his hand, clenching and unclenching his fist.

“I didn’t work for him I worked for Gertrude and  _ fucking goddammit Jon  _ I told you not to do that to me,” Gerry says in one breath, shaking his head like he’s trying to get something out of it. “Look, do you want me to tell you about Gertrude? I might as well, you’re the new her.”

“I...I suppose,” Jon says. “Yes, that would be--wait, what am I doing?”

“You really can’t tell?” Gerry asks. 

“Tell--tell  _ what _ ?” Jon asks, frustrated, the hunger so set into him that he can’t bite back his exhaustion and irritation with it anymore, he wants to burn something to the ground, he wants to bite his own fingers off, he wants to get  _ so fucking _ \--

No. No. No, he doesn’t.

“You’re pulling things out of people,” Gerry says. “Making them tell you what you want them to. She could do it too. I’ve always fucking hated it.”

“How do I...can I stop?” Jon asks.

“I don’t know, mate, never a power I had,” Gerry says, shrugging. “Didn’t really have any power, really, I was just...good at burning things and not getting killed. Which is, I guess, why my own body had to take me out.”

“Does it  _ hurt _ ?” Jon asks, horrified at the thought that he’s somehow--that he’s not giving people a choice, that he’s forcing them to--

The hunger pangs through his body and he curls in on himself, hugging himself tightly, head between his legs, trying to just breathe.

“You’re in bad shape,” Gerry states, obviously, and Jon feels something frigid on his spine which he figures is probably Gerry’s hand.

“What’s happening,” Jon breathes. “Do you know?”

“How long’s it been since you’ve done an interview?” Gerry asks, cold hand retracting. Jon forces himself to sit back up and look at him.

“What?” Jon asks.

“Well, you--you have your little podcast, right?” Gerry asks, crossing his arms and shrugging. “How long’s it been since you recorded an episode?”

“Over a week,” Jon says, squinting. “Why?”

“Yeah, there’s your problem,” Gerry says. Jon wishes he were corporeal enough to slap sometimes, he must  _ know _ how unhelpful the vaguery is. He’s probably doing it for fun. Get your kicks in the afterlife where you can, or something.

“Gerry,” Jon sighs, sounding as existentially exhausted as he feels. “I--I don’t want to make you, but I’m...I need to know what’s happening to me.” His voice cracks and he tries to choke back the stupid, childish tears he can feel rising in his throat. “ _ Please _ .”

Gerry looks horrified that Jon’s this upset, eyes wide. “Uh, yeah, okay, um, so--Gertrude, she--she handled it a little better than you, but the only times we’d actually do  _ interviews _ , rather than just...burning books and stopping apocalypses...was when she got. Well.  _ Hungry _ , I guess.”

“And that fixed it?” Jon asks, breathlessly, full of hope.

“I mean, it staved it off,” Gerry says, shrugging. “I don’t know. Never happened to me and she wasn’t exactly the most open about her feelings.”

“So it...it’s an... _ addiction _ …” Jon says, and the word tastes bitter in his mouth. “Fantastic.  _ Why _ ?”

“I don’t know,” Gerry says. “Wish I could tell you. The Eye works in mysterious ways, I guess.”

“The Eye,” Jon says. “What, the--the one that--”

“That gets off on ceaselessly watching people? Yeah,” Gerry says. “Elias is its bitch, if you were wondering.”

“Am I--” Jon starts, but Gerry seems to know what he’s going to say.

“Yeah, you’re also its bitch.” He makes a mockingly sympathetic face. “Sorry.”

“Great,” Jon says, tilting his head back and exhaling sharply. “Wonderful. What does that--entail?”

“Do you want me to tell you about Gertrude?” Gerry asks. “Might shed some light. Might also be enough of a fix for you to...y’know. Calm down a little. Breathe easy again.”

“Please,” Jon says. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, you guys are the absolute best.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh I'm not sure about this one folks, it's certainly Soft but. Well. I hope you enjoy anyway lol

The train ride back to London seemed excruciatingly long, the train unnaturally cold, every movement numb and detached. Martin found himself just staring at his blank phone, on the edge of texting someone, but realizing there was probably no one in the world that actually wanted to talk to him.

His own mother didn’t want to talk to him, even after he spent hours getting up to her. He’d tried. The lady at the front desk had just given him the saddest fucking look and told him  _ so _ softly that his mum didn’t want to see him. Well, after she’d tried to give him an excuse, some-- _ she’s really not well today _ , but he’d pushed, and she’d finally told him. Apologetically, but he could almost see her wondering what on earth he could’ve done to make his own mother turn him away.

So he went back home. Tried not to cry. Tried not to think. His flat was so much  _ colder _ than it had been a day ago, and he found himself forgetting where everything was, and the goddamned fog in his mind was making it hard for him to--to ever want to move ever again.

But he made himself get up, and he’s walking back to Jon’s, because--because Jon won’t tell him to go away. Won’t love Martin, ever, probably, but won’t reject him, and that’s all Martin really needs right now. A hug would be nice, too, but that’s probably asking for too much.

He lets himself in and hears voices from the bedroom. Leans into the door and sees Jon curled up on the floor hugging his legs, looking--well, a lot better than he was this morning, at least--listening intently to Gerry, who’s gesticulating vigorously.

“--and then I killed him with a scalpel and he turned to ash, that was pretty fucking metal, actually,” Gerry’s saying, and there’s a hint of a smile on Jon’s face as he starts to try and cut Gerry off.

“But--but you were telling me about Gertr--” Jon starts, and Gerry makes a very put-upon noise.

“You have heard the fuck enough about that old lady, Jon, I am being extremely beneficent telling you  _ very exciting stories _ about my life so you don’t eat your own foot and  _ this _ is how you repay me?” 

Gerry shakes his head with mock indignance, and Jon laughs, and their faces are rather-- _ close _ , aren’t they, and Martin didn’t have this incredibly shit day just to come watch someone he has feelings for kiss someone hotter than him, so he coughs a little, and both Jon and Gerry turn to him.

Jon smiles at him, and Gerry rolls his eyes a little and smirks, in what seems like a good-natured way, giving Martin a small salute and a wink and shoving himself backwards through the wall.

“Where were you?” Jon asks, and Martin sits down on the bed. It’s supremely uncomfortable, and Martin thinks he’d almost rather sleep on the camping pad Jon’s been using in the living room, but Jon  _ gave up his bed _ and Martin’s not going to complain about that.

“I told you,” Martin says, shrugging it off, staring at the floor. 

Jon pushes himself to his feet with an old man grunt and sits next to Martin. “I was...distracted, unfortunately,” he says. “You--don’t have to tell me, if--”

“I went to visit my mum,” Martin says, softly. He hasn’t told Jon about--well, about any of it. Lied about his dad being dead cuz it was easier, hasn’t said a word about his mother. That’s not the kind of thing you tell people. That’s the kind of thing you hold close to your chest until it suffocates you.

“Didn’t go well?” Jon asks, trying to search Martin’s face, but Martin looks away. “Martin. Are you alright?”

The question brutally wrenches a single, breathless, near-sob “ _ No _ ” out of Martin’s lungs, and Jon sighs and reaches out for Martin’s hand. Martin starts to pull away, but Jon takes it, firmly, and squeezes with both of his hands. “I don’t want to talk about it, Jon, really, I don’t,” Martin says, trying to hold back tears.

“That’s alright,” Jon says, softly.

“How are you?” Martin says, sniffing hard. “You seemed bad when I left.”

“ _ Bad _ is, I would say, an understatement,” Jon says, with a humorless snort. “But I figured out what the problem is and I...to an extent, I know how to solve it, even if--well, it doesn’t matter.”

“Tell me about it,” Martin says, softly. 

“Martin, you’re--if you’re not doing well, I don’t want to--” Jon starts, but Martin squeezes his hand hard.

“I’m asking you to,” he says, and Jon smiles faintly, eyes flicking up Martin’s face. He very slowly and tentatively sort of pushes his forehead into Martin’s shoulder, then backs off again, and it makes Martin smile despite himself. “You can--I mean, if you want to, you can--” he says, and Jon takes the invitation and lays his head on the side of Martin’s shoulder.

“As our boy Gerard so eloquently put it, I appear to be, uh, ‘the Eye’s bitch’,” Jon says. “Which apparently means that I need to hear about people’s experiences with the entities semi-regularly or I get--ill.”

“Wait, any of the entities?” Martin asks. “Not just encounters with the Eye?”

“Apparently,” Jon says, shrugging, his shoulder scraping Martin’s arm. 

“Can all of the entities feed off each other like that?” Martin asks, squinting. “Is it symbiotic? That’s--huh.”

“No, I--I think it’s just the Eye, actually,” Jon says.

“So...so  _ all _ fear feeds the Eye? Doesn’t that mean the Eye’s the most powerful?” Martin asks, and Jon pulls his head away from Martin’s shoulder.

“I--I guess,” Jon says, eyebrows raised, looking a little startled at the revelation. “I hadn’t--huh.”

“And let me guess, Elias is also Eye-related.”

“Top marks,” Jon says. “I think our next move should probably be--forcefully questioning him.”

“You mean  _ interrogating _ him?” Martin asks, a little stunned, maybe a little turned on at the prospect, making a confused face at Jon. “I don’t think Tim’s actually as good at krav maga as he says he is.”

Jon laughs. “No. No, I--well, according to Gerry, I have the power to, uh--to  _ make _ people tell me things.”

“Oh,” Martin says.

“I’m afraid I’ve done it to you, and if I have, I’m sorry, it’s...it’s something I have to get used to,” Jon says, sobering significantly. “I’m not thrilled.”

“Fuck, why wouldn’t you be?” Martin asks. “You have. A  _ superpower _ . How is that not cool.”

“Because I could hurt people with it, Martin,” Jon says, rather flatly. “I don’t want--I  _ can’t _ hurt people.”

“So...so you have to...you have to consume people’s fear, and it gave you the tools to like--surgically extract said fear?” Martin asks. “That’s...that’s something.”

Jon hums. “It certainly is. I can’t say I’m a fan of--of being--being bound to something against my will, I--well, it doesn’t matter, I suppose, because it’s happening whether or not I want it to.” He sighs heavily.

“So--that’s why you were so sick?” Martin asks. “Fear withdrawal?”

“Yes,” Jon says. “Gerry, thankfully, helped me fix it for a while, but I’m afraid we’ll need to schedule interviews to keep me stable.”

“Well, I guess we do have a show to do,” Martin says.

“Obviously we can’t  _ release _ it,” Jon says. “That would be--irresponsible at best and monstrous at worst.”

“Can’t Elias... _ make _ us?” Martin asks.

“I’m not sure. I don’t know what he can do,” Jon says. “I’m quite looking forward to figuring that out, actually.”

He half-smiles, a sad, resolute, hopeful thing, and Martin’s heart jumps.

“Jon, uh,” Martin starts, some wave of courage washing over him, something romantic about the thought of going up against the evils that run the world, something--something that  _ is _ him but  _ isn’t _ him. He tries to find the rest of the words he wanted to say, but they all sound pretty inconsequential and stupid and like things you shouldn’t say after knowing someone for so short a time, so he does the more socially acceptable thing. “Can I, uh--would it be alright if I--”

“Yes, Martin,” Jon says, smiling and tilting his chin up, closing his eyes as Martin kisses him, firmly, a hand braced around the back of his neck. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, as always!! stick around for More Rat Bastard Elias Content and maybe actual plot finally lmao


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was hard for me to write because every single thing Elias says makes me angry lmao. Hope you enjoy despite that nasty little twink!

This time, Elias suggests dinner. It is, once again, overly posh, and French, which Tim seems very entertained by (“Sorry, do you  _ not _ want to throw down with our monster boss in a fucking French restaurant? I think that’s the actual funniest possible turn of events.”). 

It’s been a few days since Jon’s conversation with Gerry, and the hunger is starting to set in hard and fast again, and he’s too restless and weak to put as much effort into dressing nicely as he probably should, so he’s completely underdressed in jeans and an off-shoulder sweater that used to be his Date Look, back when he did that kind of thing.

He looks like a mess, and definitely out of place in the dimly lit restaurant, but Martin’s been staring at him since they got there with a barely suppressed delighted smile, so really, fuck the ambiance. Tim and Sasha look phenomenal, like they coordinated, like  _ interrogate the potentially evil little twink we’re contractually bound to _ is just a look they have ready to go at a moment’s notice. Sasha looks a little drawn, though, not as bad as Jon, but maybe a bit shaky, a bit nauseous, chewing on her lip.

Elias, naturally, looks perfect, sitting alone reading the menu and waiting for them, leaned back with his legs crossed. He smirks up at them as the waiter leads them over, clearly gearing up for some rehearsed, bitchy opening line, but Tim cuts him off with a “Fucking save it, mate,” and his eyebrows shoot up.

“How rude,” Elias says, tutting with disapproval. “And here I was going to ask if you’d all gotten over your collective delusion.”

Martin rolls his eyes and mutters ‘shut up’ at the same time Sasha sighs a ‘fuck you’ under her breath, and Jon can’t help but smile a little at that. It fades with one of his existential hunger pangs, and he steels himself for--well, for what they came here for.

“You serve the Eye,” Jon says. It’s not a question. Elias cocks his head, like he’s waiting for more.

“The...the Eye,” he says, finally. “Jon, you look--I mean, you look  _ very _ unwell.”

“Stop trying to make him doubt himself,” Martin says. “Or make  _ us _ doubt him. It’s not going to work, you can drop the bullshit act.” 

Jon squeezes Martin’s hand under the table, pride swelling in his chest. “Tell us why you hired us. Why we’re--bound to the Eye. What’s our purpose?” The words roll off his tongue and hang magnetic in the air, pulling at Elias, but he just smirks.

“Oh, Jon,” he sighs. “You really thought that would work on me?”

“I--” Jon says, squinting, confused. 

“Eyes can’t see inwards,” Elias says. Some pretense has dropped, and there’s a sudden intensity to him Jon didn’t expect. He leans his elbows on the table, gaining ground. “You can’t pull anything out of me, Jon, I  _ own _ you.” He leans back again. “But I expected this. I have...a proposition, I suppose.”

“We’re already working for you, fucking creep,” Sasha says.

Elias ignores her. “I-- _ we _ \--serve the Eye. As Martin so astutely pointed out the other day, I believe, the Eye can consume  _ all _ fear.”

“Wait, how--” Martin says, eyes widening.

“Really, Martin? You have to ask?” Elias says, smirking again, eyes dancing. “Your shows--your stupid little shows--they’re a basic source of power. Spreading fear. The more successful they are, the stronger the Eye becomes. I’m sure you can see the benefits of that, can’t you, Jon?”

“I--” Jon starts again, blinking away from Elias. “But the Eye causes fear, doesn’t it? It’s not just a passive consumer.”

“Do you really care, Jon?” Elias says, a chill to his tone. Anxiety rises quickly in Jon’s chest, hammering at his ribs, as Elias seems to look straight into him. “We both know you don’t care who you hurt, as long as you get to stay--”

“That was a long time ago,” Jon says, and he means it to be a firm statement of fact, but it ends up sounding more like a plea. “That wasn’t me.”

“You’re bound to it, you said so yourself,” Elias says. “If it fades, so do you. And I  _ know _ you haven’t been enjoying the last week very much. Too familiar for comfort. And Sasha, my, your brave face is a lot better than his, but you’re fading as well, aren’t you? Can’t let Tim know. Wouldn’t want him to get any ideas about  _ saving _ you.”

“Shut up,” Sasha says, squinting at him in disdain and hugging herself at the same time Tim blurts a very eloquent “Wait, what’s happening?”

“And if you’re feeling self-sacrificial, which I wouldn’t recommend--you’ll survive not feeding the Eye, but barely, and, well, who wants to just  _ survive _ \--then I would remind you that there’s a number of other fears less...ambivalent on humanity than ours that thrive in our blindspots, which there are a lot more of when you’re exercising your  _ morals _ ,” Elias says. “Someone loses no matter what you do. Isn’t it better to pry trauma out of frightened humans than it is to allow them to be completely consumed and killed by their worst fears?”

“How do we know you’re not lying?” Martin asks. 

Elias sighs. “I guess you don’t. If you want to allow an apocalypse via inaction, be my guest, but I don’t think Jon would weather it all too well.”

“He’s not lying,” Jon says, softly. He’s not sure exactly  _ how _ he knows, but he does. “Do you have a way for me to contact Gertrude Robinson? I’d like to speak with her.”

Elias scoffs. “Really? Hacker extraordinaire Sasha James couldn’t find an obituary?”

“Did you kill her?” Jon asks, a cold wave of dread and a stab of hunger hitting him at the same time.

“Of course I didn’t kill her, Jon, she was an old woman. Old women die,” Elias says, rolling his eyes. “And don’t ask me about Gerard Keay, he died of a brain tumor--and  _ no _ , the Eye can’t cause those.”

Jon doesn’t believe him, but doesn’t want to push it. 

“You said we’re keeping the other entities down,” Martin says, squinting at the table, making his fiercely endearing Concentrating Face. “So why are you working with them?”

“Come again?” Elias says, blinking in surprise.

“Well, that--Peter Lukas. Who sponsors the show. I read the ad copy for him, and--he’s working for another one, isn’t he? The isolation one,” Martin says.

“The Lonely,” Sasha says, softly, and he snaps his fingers.

“Yeah, the Lonely,” Martin says. “Has to be.”

Elias laughs in what seems like genuine delight. “Oh, very good, Martin, I  _ did _ underestimate you, but I suppose there wouldn’t be so much interest in you if there was nothing there.”

That makes Jon feel nauseous, suddenly. “Interest?”

“I do have to leave  _ some _ things up to your imaginations,” Elias says. “Wouldn’t want to spoil all the fun to come.”

“So...you’re working with the Lonely, then,” Martin says. 

“Not particularly,” Elias says. “Truly, it’s none of your business, but Peter...funds us to an extent. Between us? He doesn’t have a single chance, and he never has. Who am I to turn down the money?”

“What do you even  _ use _ it for?” Tim asks, squinting.

“Yeah, pay us better,” Sasha says. “Way better. If we’re fearmongering for an Eye-pocalypse, we might as well make decent money.”

“Fair point,” Jon says.

“Do your jobs and I’ll consider it,” Elias says, tightly. “You have absolutely no leverage at present, and it’s not as if any of you are dazzling me with your warm, pay-rise-worthy personalities.”

“Then why did you choose us?” Martin asks.

“I didn’t choose  _ you _ ,” Elias says, smirking. “You were--well, coincidence would be too strong a word, but I’ve been enjoying it so far.”

“Fine, why Jon, then,” Martin says, shrugging defensively.

“I came here to have a nice dinner, Martin, I don’t particularly want to say anything  _ too _ emotionally damaging before we even get bread,” Elias says. “Does it matter why? You’re here now.”

“He’s right,” Jon says. “Doesn’t make much of a difference.”

“It does to  _ me _ ,” Martin says. “I want to know, if we’re all stuck here, why--”

“Didn’t you ever listen to the Rolling Stones, Martin? You can’t always get what you want.” Elias takes an infuriatingly long sip of water. “No, I suppose you never listened to your parents’ music. Neither of them ever had an interest in sharing anything with you.”

Martin’s face twists in pain, but he quickly shakes it off. “Fine. Be like that.”

“What happened to your eyes?” Jon asks, staring Elias down, thinking about the picture of him as a young man. 

“The questions you people ask,” Elias says. “Playing supernatural study-buddies all week so you could assault me with a barrage of unrelated inquiries. Maybe I  _ didn’t _ choose as well as I thought.”

“You’re dodging,” Tim says.

“People change as they grow up, Timothy,” Elias says. “Sometimes their eyes, sometimes...sometimes their skin--”

He smiles wickedly as Tim slams the table. “You are fucking inches away from getting stabbed,” Tim says, voice low and ragged. “I swear, you mention him  _ ever _ again--”

“I just mentioned  _ skin _ ,” Elias says, eyes full of mock surprise, lips twisting in some kind of sick schadenfreude. “You  _ are _ touchy.”

“Fuck you.”

“Stabbing me would probably be a bad idea,” Elias says. “Stabbing anyone in public is a bad idea, but, well--especially me.  _ Especially _ for Sasha and Jon, and I know you wouldn’t do anything to endanger Sasha, would you?”

“Fuck. You,” Tim repeats, through clenched teeth. 

“My point is, don’t look so deeply into things. Jon, you would say you’re a completely different person now than you were when you woke up in that Tesco fridge, wouldn’t you? It’s no different with me.”

“Shut up,” Jon snaps, the memory abrading his consciousness all of a sudden, until the shame panging between his eyes is all he can feel.

“Jon used to be  _ fun _ ?” Tim asks, clearly trying to joke through a voice still filled with pain, and Jon whirls to face him.

“I  _ really _ just--fucking  _ don’t _ ,” Jon says, surprised he could be even that diplomatic about it through the jolt of rage that spiked through him.

“Boys, boys, settle down,” Elias says. “We should eat, it’s what we’re here for. A little comradery between allies. Jon, Sasha, I’ll forgive the two of you if you’re not too interested in the selection, I know your palates are getting somewhat more--refined. Don’t worry, both of you are going to be  _ very _ well-fed in the next few days. Never say I don’t provide.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3<3


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man working 9 hours and then writing is brutal but at this point if I stop writing a chapter a day I will die so. Here's a weird one! Hope you enjoy.

The new door in Jon’s flat is back. Martin helpfully and dutifully stuck a ‘BAD DOOR (!!!!)’ post-it on it when it showed up, just in case, but it’s disappeared and reappeared in slightly different places several times, and Martin’s running out of sticky notes.

Jon’s been pointedly ignoring it. Trying not to think about it. He’s found if he thinks about it too hard, it starts to itch at his mind. He becomes desperate to know, to open the door and walk through, damn the consequences, there has to be  _ something _ worth seeing behind a door that shouldn’t--maybe doesn’t--exist.

He’s also ignoring it because it reminds him of the door in his mind. Well. He’s calling it a door, because that was the thing that slipped off his tongue when he was trying to explain it to Martin. It’s rather like the Bad Door (!!!!) in his flat: his mind may be full of dark corners, but he at least knows what all the rooms are. Not this one. 

So he doesn’t think about it, and he doesn’t think about the Bad Door (!!!!). He also doesn’t think about the yawning abyss in the core of his being that makes his stomach turn and his skin crawl, because that won’t help anything, will it.

And besides, there’s more important things to think about, things like Martin’s arm tentatively draped around him, like a weighted blanket on his chest. Things like how this is the closest he’s been to anyone since Georgie, and how he’s really enjoying it, and how he wishes he’d met Martin at a less strange time in his life. 

Except, he knows himself, and he is and always has been a bit of an anxious asshole, and it generally takes extraordinary circumstances to get him to socialize more than necessary. (Case in point: he’d only asked Georgie out because they’d been stuck in a deserted car on the tube together for hours and it seemed like the only natural course of action). So you win some, you lose some.

Alright, maybe you lose a lot, like your humanity and ability to fully function and worldview, but at least there’s a silver lining, right? 

“It just fucking moved again,” Martin sighs, watching yet another post-it drift sadly to the floor. “Why is it doing that?”

“Trying to make us doubt ourselves and our perception,” Jon says. He hears the words he’s saying without consciously thinking about saying them, and yet he knows, with absolute clarity, that they’re true. “That’s what it feeds on.”

“It?” Martin asks, squinting down at Jon.

“The Spiral,” Jon says, the words still rolling off his tongue effortlessly. He tries to rationalize why he would-- “Gerry told me that, when the door first appeared. That it was an entrance to the Spiral.”

His heart jumps as his eyes brush over the door, his body even twitches slightly. He wants to know  _ so badly _ , wants to  _ see _ , but--Martin’s weighing him down and it’s for the best.

“That makes sense,” Martin says. “You’re, uh. You’re not going to go in, right?”

“No,” Jon says, quickly, unconvincingly laughing it off. He’s always been such a bad liar. Is it a lie? 

Yes, of course it’s a lie, he knows that the second Martin goes to bed he’s going to bolt for the door. He should trust himself more. He  _ has _ self-control, he clawed desperately for it for years and he has it and he should  _ use _ it, but--

But he has to  _ know _ .

“Okay,” Martin says. He pauses for a moment. “You know, why don’t we switch? You should have the bed for once, I mean, it’s your flat.”

It’s obvious and unconvincing. “Martin, you’re staying for me, you get the bed,” Jon says.

“Yeah, see, uh, I don’t want you to take this wrong, but I don’t trust you,” Martin says. “I mean, I trust you on some things, but I don’t trust you about the door.”

“And who’s to say the door wouldn’t just appear in my room?” Jon asks, raising an eyebrow. “Clearly it has a mind of its own. If it wants me to go in, it  _ could _ just do that.”

“Fine,” Martin says, a hint of irritation in his voice. “Then we have to sleep in the same place, because I’m not letting you get eaten by the Bad Door.”

“ _ Martin _ ,” Jon says.

“No! I’m not!” Martin says, shrugging and throwing his hands up, the reassuring weight lifting off Jon. Without its presence, without the grounding force, some vortex opens in Jon’s mind.

_ His flat is exactly 43.227 square meters. His grandmother’s last word was finally. The cat Georgie adopted to replace him is named the Admiral and he’s seven pounds overweight. The ‘K’ in ‘Martin K Blackwood’ doesn’t stand for anything.  _

He gasps out a breath he held involuntarily and squeezes his eyes shut, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead, trying to stem the tsunami of information crashing into his mind through that metaphorical unfamiliar door. It doesn’t stop, just focuses, focuses on Martin, because he’s there, because thinking about him usually helps, at least a bit.

_ He’s a semi-compulsive liar. His father isn’t dead, just gone from his life forever. He’s never had a boyfriend. He dropped out of secondary school. When he was nine he hid in a closet for two days to see if his mother would notice or worry about him. She didn’t. He can’t walk across bridges without drifting too close to the edge.  _

Jon struggles for air, grasping at the nearest thing he can ground himself on, which is Martin. He twists a hand into Martin’s shirt and pulls, and Martin makes a startled, worried noise. 

“Jon?” he says, voice small. “What’s--uh--”

Jon laughs, can’t stop himself, it’s a little bit relief that he can breathe again and a little bit that his brain was just completely overloaded and his thoughts are incoherent and disordered. “I hate your mother,” he says, and Martin jerks away from him.

“What?” Martin asks, squinting, confused. Jon doesn’t relinquish his grip on Martin, needs to keep himself anchored so he doesn’t get completely swept away again.

“She will never deserve a son like you,” Jon says, and he means it as an earnest compliment, but he watches Martin’s face as he takes it completely the wrong way.

“What the fuck are you even  _ talking _ about?” Martin asks. “I’ve told you--you don’t know anything about her, I mean, how dare you even--”

“Why would you defend the woman who didn’t look for you, didn’t call the police, didn’t--she didn’t even  _ notice _ for a  _ day _ ,” Jon says, his mind still drifting, still stuck on his outrage at that memory, that poor, sweet boy curled up in his closet, the anticipation in his heart beating away to devastation and resignation.

“Because she’s my--how do you even  _ know _ about that?” Martin sputters. “I don’t--I’ve never told  _ anyone _ , and I don’t--”

“I don’t know,” Jon says, laughing breathlessly again, horrified by himself and by how little control he has over his mind, it feels so creepingly familiar, losing himself like this. “I don’t--I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to know, I just--did. Do.”

“Well, don’t,” Martin says. “Please, just--don’t. I--I like you. A lot. But I don’t--I mean, that’s the kind of shit that absolute fuckweasel was pulling last night, the--the  _ I know all your traumas, aren’t I special _ bullshit, and I don’t  _ like _ it, alright?”

“I can’t control it,” Jon says. “I don’t even know why it’s happening, it’s--” He shrugs, helplessly.

“Okay,” Martin says, slowly, looking very unsure. He takes the hand Jon has twisted into his shirt and gently removes it. “Well. We’ll figure it out.”

“You were right. We should sleep in the same place,” Jon says. “I--if that happens again, and I can’t--I don’t--”

“Alright,” Martin says, though he doesn’t sound particularly thrilled about the prospect anymore. “That’s fine.”

A voice echoes from behind the door, loud and melodic and somewhat otherworldly. “Ugh, you boys are  _ so boring _ . Most people would go  _ through _ the door. But you two like your cats well and alive, so I guess I have to come to you.”

“Oh god fucking what  _ now _ ,” Martin mutters, as the door swings open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> miss helen the spiral i love and would die for you please forgive my complete inability to write you


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I worked ten hours today and I'm stoned so this sure is A Chapter. idk I kind of dig it. Hope you enjoy!

“You’re not even going to offer to  _ record _ me?” the thing from the now-vanished Bad Door (!!!!) whines melodically. Calling it a  _ thing _ seems charitable, since Martin can’t entirely pin down...any single feature it has.

It’s making him dizzy and a little nauseous to watch, it shifts, throbs neon halos into his vision, transfixes and repels him in equal measure. He can’t process its question, but luckily, Jon can, even in whatever fucked up concerning state he’s in.

“Uh--” Jon says. “You...you  _ want _ me to--?”

“Yes!” the thing says, and the sound crescendos so loudly in Martin’s mind bile rises in his throat. “Or, I think Elias will, and we want to keep him happy, don’t we?”

“Do we?” Jon asks. Martin wants to look over at him, to see his reaction to whatever the fuck is happening, but he can’t tear himself away.

“We’ll only feel right if  _ They _ do,” it says, form shifting in some lightshow approximation of a shrug. “You don’t know yet, do you?”

“Know--”

“All the hooks your master has in you,” it says. “Oh well, there’s always time!”

“What--” Martin manages, head still throbbing trying to look away. “Jon, what  _ is _ that?”

It gasps, a sound like a sharp static icepick. “My  _ name _ is Helen, you little gremlin!” It--she?--sounds delighted.

“I’m Jon,” Jon says. “You already know that.”

“Truly the Eye misses nothing,” Helen says, the closest to a deadpan she seems to be able to manage. “Hi, Jon!”

“Hello, Helen,” Jon says, leaning to grab his tape recorder, and flicking it on. “Welcome to Stale Air. I’m Jonathan Sims, and today I’m joined by Helen, a--a--”

“A distortion,” Helen offers, in a tone that makes it seem like she thinks she’s being helpful.

“A--distortion,” Jon says. “Well, uh--Helen, what--what would you like to tell me about today?”

“I’d like to tell you a scary story,” she says, voice going mock-hushed. She continues in a teasing whisper. “Isn’t that what you deal in?”

“I suppose it is,” Jon says, and every second the tape whirls, he looks a little stronger, a little less desperate. “Please, go on.”

“I just needed the invitation,” she says, form flickering with--delight? “This is--a scary story about Helen. Not me, Helen, but--well--yes me, Helen?”

She tells a story of a real estate agent showing a house, of there suddenly being a new door, a tall, strange man, and an endless, twisting, maddening hallway that she escaped only to fall right back in.

It scares the entire shit out of Martin and he makes a note to add more exclamation points to Bad Door (!!!!) next time. Jon, though, looks calm, fixated on the story, not even remotely alarmed. 

“Thank you very much for your time, Helen,” Jon says, firmly, sounding fully like he means it. He flicks the tape recorder off and the pretense drops (when did he get  _ good _ at this??). “Why are you in my flat? What are you here to tell me? Are you here to kill me?"

“My, you  _ are _ paranoid,” Helen says, sounding scandalized. “No, Jon, I like you, and while murders are a healthy way to round out your diet, I don’t think you’d be worth the trouble. Besides, this one would take it hard.” She points at Martin.

“Why are you here?”

“Oh, Jon, you’re  _ making _ yourself worth the trouble, playing around with power like that,” Helen says, form flickering. “I wouldn’t.”

“Or what?” Jon asks, cocking his head, and Martin bites down hard on his lip.

“You know how it feels to lose control of your mind,” Helen says. “I could remind you. We could set a schedule! Tuesdays and Thursdays. But I get to choose when. It’ll be fun. My hallways have  _ all _ sorts of--”

“Fine, yes, point taken,” Jon sighs. “Please, Helen, would you be so kind as to explain yourself to us.”

“Now  _ that’s _ a gentleman,” Helen sings, and puts a hand (?) over her mouth (?) and whispers “I see why you like him” to Martin.

“Uh--” he starts, but she laughs and spares him having to come up with an actual response to that.

“IIIIIIIIII think you deserve a little more warning than Elias is giving you,” she says. “You’re feeding the Eye, yes, and that’s bad enough, thinking about how eyes eat--ugh!” She sounds truly delighted. “But you’re also sort of a supernatural autograph book with that little show! Which is sort of fun, if you think about it. Living books, what a  _ thought _ .”

“A--wait, a  _ what _ ?” Jon asks, squinting.

“Well, I should be off, I don’t want our sharp-eyed friend too angry with me!” she says, and the Bad Door (!!!!) is back, and she waves (?) and whirls through it, closing it behind her. It disappears the second it shuts, and Martin feels like he can breathe again.

“But that didn’t--help,” Jon’s saying to the closed door, and then he sighs heavily, brushing his hair back with both hands. “Did you make anything of that? You interpret this nonsense better than me.”

“Um…” Martin manages, shaking his head to try and erase Helen’s afterimage from his eyes. “No, I--she made me nauseous.” He pauses for a moment. “I think I liked her?”

Jon’s voice is fond when he says “You  _ are _ strange.”

“Yeah, I’m not taking that from  _ you _ ,” Martin says, half-smiling. “So--wait, alright, we can think through this...so you’re--we’re not just feeding the Eye, we’re…”

“Yes, see, she didn’t really  _ finish _ that thought,” Jon says. “I don’t know. I don’t trust that she was even trying to help us. I mean, she consumed poor Helen and--what, stole her--her  _ persona _ ?”

“She wasn’t trying too hard to have a comprensible persona, come on, now,” Martin says, laughing nervously.

“What?” Jon asks, squinting in confusion. “I mean, her dimensions were... _ off _ , I’ll grant you, but she was still...you know...real estate agent shaped?”

Martin laughs, incredulously this time. “Wait,  _ really _ ?”

“I mean...yes? What did  _ you _ see?” Jon asks.

“I...have no idea,” Martin says, shrugging. “But it wasn’t shaped like a person, I can tell you that much.”

“Oh,” Jon says. “H--huh. That’s--then--maybe I saw her how she wants to be seen?”

“Isn’t the Eye supposed to be able to--y’know--see things how they are?” Martin asks.

“I guess Gerry never mentioned that specifically as a power,” Jon says, scratching his neck. “Odd that it wouldn’t be, though, maybe I’m--maybe I’m just getting--the better question is more how  _ you _ saw through her?”

“Maybe I’m...Eye-y,” Martin says. “Possible, right?”

“Have you been having metaphysical cravings? Experiencing tidal waves of unwanted knowledge?” Jon asks.

“Call your doctor now and see if the Eye is right for you!” Martin offers, cheerily, but Jon blinks the bad joke off, expression flat.

“Take this seriously, Martin,” he says, and Martin feels a genuine wave of annoyance.

“No, Jon, I haven’t,” Martin says, shrugging. “I’m fine. I don’t know how I saw through her, I’m not the special one. And don’t get defensive, I didn’t say I  _ want _ to be.”

“Well, at least we have another episode,” Jon says, dismissively. “Though--we actually need to get Melanie’s out, don’t we?”

“Are you--you’re actually worried about that?” Martin asks. “We’re actually just going along with Elias?”

“Unless you have a better plan that doesn’t leave me debilitatingly weak?” Jon asks, crossing his arms. Martin sighs in frustration and Jon nods, smugly. “Thought so.”

“I don’t like you,” Martin mutters, and Jon laughs.

“I’ve been wondering when you were going to come to that conclusion,” Jon says. “I’d say you’re welcome to walk away, but you were stupid enough to sign that contract, so--”

“I just don’t like you right in this moment!” Martin says. “God, you’re such a drama queen.”

Jon blinks, genuinely derailed. “Oh.”

“I like you in general, you’re just--being a bit of a dick.”

“I do tend to do that, I hear,” Jon says.

“Look, you might be--high on ghost stories or whatever, but I need to sleep, so,” Martin says, shrugging. “My brain wore itself out trying to comprehend Helen.”

“Hmm,” Jon says. “If--I know you’re not happy with me, but I do feel--very odd, still, and if your offer still stands, I’d like to just...lay with you for a bit.”

“Oh,” Martin says. What the fuck is he supposed to do, say no? It’s an unfair thing to ask of him. “Uh. Yeah. Yes, sure.”

“Great,” Jon says, a smile flickering across his face. “Thank you, Martin.”

“Ugh,  _ now  _ you have manners.”

“I have favor to win back,” Jon says. “It’s  _ important  _ now. I need you to like me again.” The smile flickers again, letting Martin know he’s teasing.

“Tell me my joke was funny,” Martin says, and Jon laughs, softly, resting his head on Martin’s shoulder.

“Your joke was funny.”

“Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3<3<3


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is there a point to this chapter other than me wanting to write Gerry/Martin and having Web feelings? Probably not. Hope you enjoy anyway.

Jon takes the absolute longest showers in the world, and Martin always feels sort of out of place waiting for him. Doesn’t know what to do with himself in a space that isn’t his. Just sort of tries to take up as little room as possible and dicks around on his phone and occasionally pokes at the audio editing software he’s theoretically taught himself to use.

He looks up from a failed and quickly undone attempt to cut out Jon and Melanie’s bickering from the start of the interview because there’s movement in his vision, and finds Gerry sitting across from him, leaning his chin into his hand and staring intently at Martin.

“Uh, hi?” Martin says, and Gerry squints at him.

“Just so you know,” Gerry starts, slowly leaning back, eyes not flicking even a millimeter, “I’m not a narc. As long as you’re not hurting anyone, fine, do whatever you have to. But I do think you should tell Jon.”

“What the fuck are you  _ talking  _ about,” Martin says, laughing incredulously and a little confusedly. “I’m--do you think I’m on drugs? What’s--what--”

“Yeah, but don’t pull the reality bending string-pulling shit,” Gerry says, making a face. “Not a fan of that. My mum wasn’t--wasn’t one of you, but she might as well’ve been, she was  _ ace _ at twisting the world to her will.”

“I have absolutely no idea what’s happening right now,” Martin says, slowly, clearly, and as plainly as he can manage, the way you talk to a fast-speaking child. 

Gerry makes an irritated noise in his throat. “You! You’re--by the--” He growls, and slams the table, and Martin flinches as he braces for the sound, but there’s nothing. Gerry’s hand passes through the wood, which seems to just irritate him more. “Fuck.” 

There’s a flash over Gerry’s face, sadness and frustration. 

“Are you okay?” Martin asks, softly, because his response when people get angry is and will always be to approach, to be the wild animal tamer in the movies, because that’s how he was raised. Or, rather, wasn’t raised. 

“No,” Gerry says, and he laughs, airily. “I don’t know why I still exist. And I don’t know why I can’t--I couldn’t tell Jon about them either. I can’t--I must be here because of the--because of  _ them _ , which makes me fucking  _ nervous _ , and I can’t  _ talk _ about them.”

“About--about the entities? But you told--” Martin starts, squinting, and Gerry shakes his head.

“No--I can talk about most of them as much as I want.”

“ _ Oh _ ,” Martin says. “Right.  _ Right _ . Jon said you said there were fourteen, but only listed twelve, right?” Gerry nods. “So, what, the other two?”

Gerry taps his nose. “You’d be killer on game shows.”

“Is one of them, uh--a spider?” Martin asks, and Gerry weaves his head from side-to-side in a ‘sort of’ gesture, and looks like he’s trying to force words out, but there’s no sound. “No. No, you’re right, it’s not about the spider itself, is it? That’s not the scary part. The expectation of the spider is scarier than the spider itself, but that’s not even it, it’s--it’s about being stuck. About--about struggling and still being caught. Because there’s nowhere to run, except where it wants you to go.”

Gerry’s eyes slowly widen as Martin speaks, and he nods, slowly. “You, uh, you catch on quicker than Jon, don’t you?” Gerry asks, and Martin shrugs, self-consciously.

“I don’t think so,” Martin says, laughing nervously, trying to shake out whatever came over him there. “I’m not--smart like him, I just…”

Gerry makes a face at him. “Didn’t ask for the self-deprecation bullshit, mate,” he says. “Look, d’you think we can like, figure the other entity I’m not allowed to talk about via charade? I don’t think it’s as important, but."

“Wait, but what were you talking about before? About me?” Martin asks, and Gerry sighs.

“It’s--I--the thing that you just talked about,” Gerry says. “It--it’s marked you.”

“Marked…? What does that mean, exactly,” Martin asks, and probably he should be full of dread or fear or something. He should be like Jon, horrified, ready to tear his skin off over being  _ chosen _ by some cosmic abomination.

He’s quite calm, though, actually. He’s taking this better than he takes shows he likes getting cancelled. He’s not using himself to great effect, if something else wants to try him out, fuck, why not?

“Depends,” Gerry says. “You’re  _ for _ it. Which either means it’s gonna kill you, or…” He shrugs, lifts his chin and puts a hand around his neck, miming whatever supernatural gag order’s been placed on him. 

“So...so what, so I’m part of a plan?” Martin asks. Gerry shrugs.

“I think everything is part of its plan,” Gerry says. “And the fact that it’s letting me say that is a little troubling, I won’t lie. It scares the shit out of me. The Eye--the Eye is a stuffy, repressed, voyeuristic sort of fear, y’know? It’s like--the vanilla, missionary-style shit on the Human Misery equivalent of PornHub. Like, it’ll  _ watch _ gangbang and--”

“I get the metaphor,” Martin says, squinting at him.

Gerry blinks. “Right. Yeah. Sorry. Just...had a moment.”

“Ghosts don’t--?”

“Can’t,” Gerry says. “Really...kind of unfortunate. Anyway, my point is--uh--it was that-- _ right _ , that the Eye is...the fear  _ it _ causes is, you know, standard shit. Someone’s  _ watching _ me, oh it’s so  _ spooky _ , I’m never  _ alone _ , I’m reliving all my  _ trauma _ . Boring stuff.”

“I mean--”

“Also, most of the people who work for the Eye are cunts,” Gerry says, shrugging. “Just true. They get so detached from suffering that they just...blink over it. My boss fucking let me die. Saw the cancer growing in my brain and didn’t tell me, because then I would’ve gotten treatment and I wouldn’t be useful. I hope Jon doesn’t end up like that, but, hey, wouldn’t get too attached, just in case.”

“Okay, what’s your point,” Martin says, shrugging off the comment about Jon.

“The--the one that’s marked you, it’s...it’s  _ terrifying _ ,” Gerry says. “I mean, existentially.” Something seems to lift off his chest and shoulders, words start to flow more freely, and he visibly tries to choke them back, but he can’t. “Every single thing you do might not be your choice. You might just be a puppet on a string. Everything, everyone, everywhere is just a story a really intense little girl’s acting out with her dolls, or it’s pool balls slamming each other and ricocheting chain reactions. Existence is a Rube Goldberg machine  _ it _ sets up. That’s what it wants you to believe. And you’ll never know. You will never, ever know. When you kissed Jon, was that you? Or was that  _ it _ , pushing you to, because him loving you will serve its needs?”

Gerry cuts himself off for air and clenches his fist, jaw tight. 

“Are you okay?” Martin whispers, and Gerry shakes his head.

“Don’t like being controlled,” he forces out from between his teeth. He keeps his jaw rigid, and yet, he speaks again and the words come out clear, like he’s speaking normally. “You like bending the world, Martin Blackwood.”

“Um,” is all Martin can manage, wide-eyed, voice squeaky. “I guess?”

“You could make your mother love you. You could find your father and make him pay. No one would ever call you  _ miss _ again. You wouldn’t even have to wear that painful thing on your chest anymore. No one would question you.”

“Oh,” Martin says, voice still tiny. “Do I have a choice?”

“Does anyone?”

“Fair point, I guess,” Martin says, and then Gerry’s jaw unclenches.

“Fucking hated that,” he mutters. “Wow. Hard sell. Sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Martin says. He doesn’t say that it feels good to be wanted. He doesn’t say that he feels more viscerally understood by the fear that’s decided he belongs to it than anything else in the world. Those would be weird things to say, and he is a Very Normal Man.

“I, uh. I had a bad mum too,” Gerry says. “So. I get you.”

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Martin says. “Mine’s not all that bad, really, she just. Um. Well, it’s fine. It doesn’t matter. It’s not the kind of thing you talk about in polite company, really, is it.”

“I’m not polite company,” Gerry says, tilting his head, and Martin flushes. 

“What was so bad about your mum, then?” he asks.

“She was a murderer who flayed her victims and bound them into a book,” Gerry says, unblinking, sounding a little tired of the whole thing. “My father was one of the said victims.”

“Holy shit,” Martin says, genuinely stunned. It’s very rare that someone’s parental issues are actually impressive. ‘My mum ignored me at the best of times’ is nothing compared to that.

“But I still wanted her to love me.” Gerry sighs and shrugs. “Mothers, right?”

“Uh, sure,” Martin says.

“So, what, do I get to hear your story now? Or…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm gonna be a self-promoting charlatan: if you like my gerry content, check out "a pleasure to burn", i just wrote it the other day and i quite like it! it's my take on his backstory. i love him. did y'all know i love him.
> 
> ANYWAY as always thank you for reading!!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to just be jonmartin angst but like I'm tired and got completely sidetracked so now it's jonmartin angst with an interlude of Tim and Sasha as the world's only entity-based comedy duo. Hope you enjoy, lol.

Martin slams the spacebar and looks up at Jon expectantly, and Jon has to quickly mentally check that his facial expression isn’t betraying the sick jolt of anticipation listening to the episode sent through him.

“So, is it...did I do okay?” Martin asks, giving Jon a tiny, nervous smile. Jon’s heart hammers in his chest and he tries to convince himself it’s because of that smile. 

“Yes,” Jon says, smiling back at him. “Considering that was your first time ever editing something, you did.”

Martin pales, eyes widening. “Um--how did you--” 

“I’m sorry, Martin, I didn’t--I didn’t mean to, you’re just sort of...projecting it,” Jon says, before he actually registers that it’s true. Martin’s thoughts hang ambient in the space between them, and Jon can try not to know them, but they’re there, to brush against and get stuck on.

“Oh,” Martin says. “You’re not...mad?”

Jon almost laughs. Couldn’t possibly be mad now. He’s firmly resting in the dizzying leadup to a hit, that calm knowledge that however bad he feels, it’ll be over soon. He tries to hate himself for the feeling, but he can’t bring himself to, it’s so familiar and  _ welcome _ .

“No, I’m not mad,” he manages. “Sort of interesting that--that Tim chose  _ you _ , though, he had other people contact him with actual demonstrations of their work.” Another thing he didn’t know he knew until he said it. It always startles him. “I’m glad it was you, though.”

Martin looks sort of ill when Jon mentions the others, and Jon can’t quite tell why. He tries to probe that ambient tangle of thoughts, but finds himself getting twisted in them, trains of thought and knowledge colliding with each other without finishing and leaving him lost. He’s stuck trying to figure it out, can’t tear his mind away, can’t slam the door in his mind shut.

This isn’t a tidal wave, though, this is something else. 

Martin shakes him, gently, a hand on his shoulder, and Jon blinks out of it, mind clear again, and that twisting, recursive, confused feeling fades so completely he can’t remember it the moment it’s gone.

“You okay?” Martin asks, and Jon manages a smile.

“Fine,” he says. “Are you?”

“Yeah,” Martin says, and even though his voice is pitched high and he still looks faintly nauseous, Jon finds himself completely believing him. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know,” Jon says, truthfully. “Maybe your moral issues at being involved with something that’s harvesting the fear of humanity?”

“I mean,” Martin says, shrugging. “Look, it’s not great, but if...if Elias isn’t a lying bastard, which, I know the chances of that are slim, then we’re helping humanity in the long run. So, no, I’m good.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be,” Jon says. The moralizing helps him bite back the faintly buzzing pre-euphoria, at least a little. 

“You want me to beat myself up about it?” Martin asks, a hint of irritation in his voice. “If I think too hard about all of it, then yeah, I’ll probably break down. I can hate myself for anything, Jon, alright? I’d rather not if I can help it.”

“That...makes sense, yes,” Jon says. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Martin sighs. “So, should we upload it?”

Jon does his best to pretend he isn’t desperate to do that. “Sure. Whenever.”

Martin gives him a look that for a split second reads as him staring straight through Jon, but he starts uploading it anyway. “I think Tim and Sasha also did a new episode of Forbidden Section? Tim texted me. He said they’re uh, they’re doing it a little differently?”

“Differently how?”

“They’re not exactly...taking it seriously,” Martin says, chin quivering a little. “He sent me just the ad copy he rewrote, and--can I play it for you? It’s...it’s good.”

“Dear god,” Jon says. “If you must.”

Martin beams and flicks up an audio file on his phone. He hits play and smiles at Jon in abject delight as Tim’s voice, hushed and theatrical, in what honestly sounds like a vaguely mean impression of Jon, plays over his old, tinny phone speaker.

“When you’re trying to sleep at night, tossing and turning,  _ trying _ to get comfortable, do you ever feel like your bones are just--in the way?” Tim asks. 

“Oh, absolutely, every night,” Sasha says, and Tim snorts, softly, clearly trying to muffle it. “After about an hour, I can’t take it anymore, you know, I roll over and I tell my wife--”

“Your wife?”

“Her name is Dana Scully, we’ve been happily married for years. I love her, she just doesn’t move her face much.”

“What do you tell her, Sasha, I am in suspense,” Tim says.

“I tell her  _ fuck _ , babe, I have too many bones!” Sasha says.

“You ever think maybe there’s a way to solve that problem?” Tim asks. “You know, to get your bones  _ out of the way _ so you can just--lie on your side without getting hurt?”

“But Timothy, there’s no way to remove your  _ bones _ .”

“Are you sure about that?” Tim asks, in a decent 50s radio announcer impression. 

“Well, I’m not  _ now _ ,” Sasha says.

“Go to Jared Hopworth’s Bone Removal Clinic! They call him the Boneturner, and he is just--oh, he’s  _ ace _ , he’ll do everything--take out some ribs so you can suck your own cock like Marilyn Manson--”

“Timothy Stoker, children listen to this podcast.”

“And the children don’t know that Marilyn Manson can--?”

“What else can the Boneturner do?” Sasha asks, cutting him off with an extreme amount of feigned enthusiasm.

“He can rearrange the bones in your face! You want cheekbones like Bendydick Cabbagepatch? He’s fucking  _ got you _ . You want smaller feet? He’s the man. He’s just, you know, a  _ fantastically _ gifted surgeon. Doesn’t even leave scars! _ Completely _ fucking normal. Absolutely a regular service people provide.”

“And if you  _ don’t _ feel insecure about anything related to your bones...you probably should,” Sasha says. “Come on, ladies, we’ve all gotten those comments about wide hips. As you all know, we desperately need to be attractive, or we’ll die alone.”

“So, uh, you know, go to the Boneturner. Promo code ‘McRib’ for like, I don’t know, fifteen percent off your first bone removal?”

“Sounds about right.”

“And now, back to the show.”

Martin turns his phone off and beams back up at Jon, who can’t help but smile back, even through the wave of annoyance he feels that they’re not even trying to take this seriously, that they’re--doing the right thing by throwing this in Elias’s face, by denying the Eye what it so desperately wants--no,  _ needs _ .

“That...is definitely something,” Jon says.

“I love it,” Martin says. “I’d say we should follow suit, but, uh, our brand seems to be pretty set, especially if Helen-like things keep showing up.”

Jon hums, starting to pick at his cuticles absently. “Someone has to take all this seriously.”

“Yeah, sure,” Martin says, nodding. “Oh! Just finished uploading. We’re officially in business.” Martin smiles again, and Jon kisses him on the cheek, which makes him blush. “You seem pleased, considering the whole  _ I’m a monster _ bit."

“Well,” Jon says, shrugging. “Yes. I am a monster. And this is an objectively bad thing. But…” There isn’t a  _ but  _ he can actually say out loud.  _ But _ this is the best he’s felt in years--or at least will be, once the fear starts trickling in?  _ But _ the rush is drowning out the nagging self-loathing?

Martin chews his lip and waits for an end to Jon’s sentence that never comes. “It’s alright. I get it,” Martin says, finally. “Nothing wrong with appreciating your own work, I guess.”

Jon nods, grateful for the save. “Exactly.”

“Um. This is sort of a strange question, but do you--” Martin stops and sighs. “Do you actually--do you actually  _ like _ me? I mean, you can...know things, can’t you…”

“Eyes can’t look inwards,” Jon says, reflexively.

“But...Elias could see into you, so if that were true, wouldn’t that be…?” Martin asks, and Jon knows he’s right, but somehow, can’t force himself to find the answer. 

“I don’t need to look,” Jon says. “Yes, I actually like you. I don’t need to  _ know _ anything to know how I feel.”

“Oh, okay, good,” Martin says. “Um. Sorry. I know that’s very...insecure teen of me.”

“It’s fine,” Jon says, squeezing his hand. “I understand.”

Martin’s eyes are dark and they don’t clear, and Jon’s tempted to poke again, to reach into his thoughts, but this time he feels the tangle before he gets stuck in it, and pulls back. He kisses Martin’s cheek again, presses his forehead into the side of Martin’s neck.

“What is this, though,” Martin says. “Because, look, I’m not complaining, but we haven’t known each other long, and you don’t seem like the type to just--throw yourself at people, and--”

“Sorry, are you saying I’ve  _ thrown myself at you _ ?” Jon asks, pulling back, genuinely offended, and Martin shrugs defensively, shoulders by his ears, not dropping them.

“No, I just--I just don’t understand why--why _ me _ , why this  _ fast _ , why--” He drops his shoulders. “I don’t know.”

“If you don’t want to be--or--do--whatever this is, we don’t have to,” Jon says, flatly. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t,” Martin says. “I mean, eventually, just...I just want to know it’s actually us.”

“Who else would it be?”

Martin takes a shaky breath. “I don’t know.” 

And for all the knowledge threatening to swallow Jon’s mind, he doesn’t either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 thank you for sticking with this nonsense


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, tonight I offer you my bottomless well of web!Martin feelings and some...surprise pointless Gerry POV. Tomorrow, who knows? Hope you enjoy!

Martin hasn’t slept in his own apartment in a week, and it seems colder and emptier than it did before, bigger and lonelier, quieter and sadder. But Jon can handle himself, and Martin needs to know that...that he isn’t just dragging fingers across silk strings and pulling his prey closer. 

If he can even do that. If being marked by the Web makes you a spider and not just another fly, if being a spider means you even  _ have _ control. He both is and isn’t surprised Jon hasn’t noticed, hasn’t  _ known _ it, hasn’t stared those sharp eyes straight through him and blinked out suspicious and untrusting. 

He knows Martin was lying about his credentials, knows probably that he’s trans, knows about his mother and his father and the neat rows of scars on his upper thighs, but somehow misses what’s right in front of him. Spiderwebs are translucent in the light, though, invisible until you walk straight into them. Maybe there are some things even the Eye can’t see.

Maybe Martin should be relieved, but he isn’t. He wants Jon to just  _ know _ so he doesn’t have to tell him. He’s not sure he could even if he wanted to. He has a feeling the words would catch in his throat and pull it shut. 

He does his T(ea) shot. Watches TV under three blankets without ever registering what show’s on. Thinks about calling his landlord to ask why it’s so cold, but ultimately gets too distracted and tired by absolutely nothing to even pick up his phone. 

He tries not to let his mind wander to what Gerry--or, the Web, he guesses, through Gerry--said to him. The power it promised. To make the world fit him, rather than having to contort and shrink and will himself into half-existence so he can fit it. He’s so sick of it. Sick of caretaking, sick of binding, sick of self-hatred and lovelessness and missing things he’s never had.

But, but, but--but there’s always hope, there’s always light, things  _ could _ get better. Somehow, someday, the world could wake up and decide, finally, that Martin Blackwood is going to get every single thing he deserves. Right?

That’s a joke and he knows it. It’s nice to hope, it’s nice to believe in love and warmth, but his hands are freezing and he’s alone and if he wants things to turn out how he wants, he’s going to have to make them. 

When his mum still let him visit, there was an old lady in the next room who treated him like a grandson and made him tea and watched old shows with him when she’d hear him crying in the hall. She always said her life motto was ‘if it’s meant to be, it’s up to me’, and Martin always thought that was just...sweet old lady nonsense. He believed the universe had a will, and it would take him where he wanted.

But no. She was right. If he wants an actual, full life, and not this halfway fogged depressive mess, he’s going to have to reach out and take it. And he  _ can _ .

Maybe. It’s not like he’s tried. Unless he did it to Jon, but--but it doesn’t count if he doesn’t know. Besides, it’s nice to be...wanted. Chosen. Part of something far, far beyond him. Even if that thing has goals he doesn’t know about. 

He used to sit in church in the horrid dresses his mum forced him to wear and listen  _ intently _ . He wanted to believe. Especially after his dad left. Especially once his grandfather died. God was the only paternal force in his life, and he wanted to believe there was a plan for the universe, something to hope for. He wanted to believe every life had inherent meaning and worth and that someday, all the pain he was feeling, all of the resentment he shoved aside to be a good son, all of that suffering in silence, it would all pay off and he would be allowed to be  _ happy _ .

But he realized that was all bullshit sometime around the time he realized he’d been shoved into the wrong body at birth. If there was a God, They wouldn’t make mistakes like that. Martin’s always been sure of that. If there was truly a master plan by some benevolent, all-powerful force, nothing would be out of place. No one would hurt themselves. People would love each other properly. 

So it makes sense that what seems to be the only cosmic plan in existence is one made by forces of horror and human misery. Martin still finds it comforting to know that there’s some order and point to everything, that at least by suffering, people are benefiting  _ something _ , it’s not completely wasted.

Sure, the things that benefit from it deserve to die for that, but that might not even be possible.

He really should call someone about the cold. He’s  _ sure _ his radiator’s on, he knows he got up to check it. It must be broken. It’s only September, it shouldn’t be this cold, but. But.

He wishes he were back at Jon’s. Warmer, there. Less dead silent. The soft reassurance of the light on under the bedroom door, another human inhabiting the same space. But he’s doing the right thing keeping away, at least until he knows what he’s doing. Jon gets a learning curve for his whole omniscience brain-Google thing, Martin just needs time to figure out how not to pull strings, and how to tell the difference. If he ever can.

But isolating himself is the right thing to do. He knows that. The cold hangs over him like a heavy, friendly arm at the thought. Like an old friend. The weight is like the coat he draped over himself, locked in that closet for days, the one he pretended was someone comforting him. 

Being alone isn’t so bad, once you settle into it.

*

Existence after death is as cheap, shitty, and unpredictable as a 50s sci-fi B-movie. There is nothingness and void and then there is a small apartment and a hot, paranoid, strung-out nerd, and then, great, back to nothingness and void again.

The entities are flicking Gerry on and off like a lightswitch, Terminus and the Web playing some sick game. Not the best combination. Even in death, he’s still at someone else’s mercy. He has to be their pawn, like he was his mum’s and Gertrude’s. 

Fucking Gertrude. He can’t figure out what happened to her. Doesn’t have his limited connection to the Eye anymore. Can’t leave the bounds set and webbed off for him.

He doesn’t know how exactly he exists, but he has some theories, and they all have to do with that sick, nightmarishly textured skin book. He exists less painfully than his mum did, he  _ thinks _ , but it’s still not incredible, if he’s honest. The page he’s bound to has to be somewhere.

If he ever gets more control, if the Web ever loosens its hold, he’ll tell Jon. Jon’s bizarre and intense and probably doomed, sure--they all are--but he does seem to have a compulsion to help. And hey, if he doesn’t, Gerry’s happy to remind him that he probably owes him for introducing him to the entities.

Even if Gerry was ostensibly put here  _ to  _ introduce him to the entities.

But hey, Jon doesn’t need to know that. He could be Gerry’s ticket to blissful, eternal non-existence. A state of being where he is finally  _ completely  _ free to do absolutely fucking nothing ever again until the end of time. Maybe longer than that! Why set an alarm?

Look, yes, a number of things are concerning about this situation. The soft sad one with the monster crush (both meanings intended, yes) being Web-marked is...well, it’s something, for sure! Gerry has no opinions or beliefs other than  _ yikes _ on that one. 

Jon’s immediate deep-end dive into Eye powers is also not fantastic. Elias chose well. Smart to pick an addict, as much as Gerry hates to admit anything Elias ever does is smart. Though--Jon’s childhood Web encounter might shift credit off Elias, so Gerry’s gonna go with that, because fuck that guy.

Actually, all signs point to the Web being in complete control of whatever’s happening. It would be nice if Gerry were allowed to, you know, talk about it. But no. That would be  _ convenient _ . 

So, fine, he’ll settle for what existence he’s allowed. Can learn to live (ha) with the  _ welcome to hell _ strobelight experience. Besides, Jon’s hot, and Martin’s not bad either.

And yes, yes, sure, under all the cynicism, maybe Gerry does actually want to help. He served his time fighting the entities, burning Leitners and hunting clowns, but he’s not allowed to be done, so he can not be done. He used to think Gandalf was a bitch for spouting cryptic exposition and then fucking off, but y’know, he’s starting to come around to that. It’s sort of fun, even if he doesn’t control when he fucks off. 

He does  _ really _ want a smoke, but there’s nothing to be done about that. At least he can walk through walls. He always thought that would be fun, and it hasn’t disappointed yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading, as always. All your feedback really makes this fun and worth doing and I appreciate it so much. Every comment makes me happy.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I have a coherent plan now, it's just that that plan involves me dipping heavily into Jonmartin Feelings (TM). Also, like, again, thank you guys for sticking with this. This is the first time I've ever written this much on one fic and I know it's probably...uh...not the best, but it means a lot that you actually read it. I really, really appreciate it.

Martin’s been gone for several days, and the lack of companionship, stimulation, or metaphysical sustenance is starting to wear at Jon. The high from the episode release was  _ excellent _ . All time listenership, an actual response--even if some of the comments were just variants on ‘lol who the fuck is this stuffy old man being a dick to melanie’--and what tastes to Jon like genuine hints of fear.

He tells himself it’s alright. They’re not hurting anyone. People  _ choose _ to listen to the show. The fear is recreational for them, something they enjoy, and besides. None of it could actually be  _ real _ , could it? Jon almost laughs every time his thoughts flicker by that, by the response he  _ knows _ some of the listeners are having. It’s so familiar, and yet, his skepticism feels centuries-old, a faded photograph of someone struggling for reason and a place in the world.

At least he doesn’t have to search anymore. A place has been handed to him, immaculately set and pristine. 

The episode also gets a quick post-release bump when Melanie does the Eye the favor of having some kind of meltdown. Another big name in the so-called ‘spectrology’ community tweets something about @GhostHuntUKing being a toxic, dangerous, potentially mentally ill person to work with, citing her biting someone who tried to calm her down and threatening another with violence.

Jon thinks about texting Georgie to ask if everything’s alright there before he remembers he can just...know. He’s been working on that, on opening that door in his mind and swimming out in search of something specific. It still overwhelms him most of the time, but when he doesn’t black out or get spooky-orphan nosebleeds or end up completely sidetracked in a rabbit hole learning how many famous historical figures were secretly gay, he blinks the information he’s looking for into the front of his mind.

It terrifies him, but in that sickening, exciting way. The sort of terror that pulls you to the edge of your seat, desperate for more.

He tries to know what’s going on with Melanie, but every time he can feel his mind start to close around it, something white-hot sears the inside of his skull and ribcage, burning like molten metal, a kind of anger Jon’s never let himself feel before, rarely even ever  _ wanted _ to feel. It hurts too much for coherent knowledge to take shape, so he pulls away and leaves it be. They aren’t friends. It isn’t his duty.

Besides, it’s hard to care about her or anyone else when the hunger is starting to set in again, the ache bone-marrow deep. He doesn’t  _ need _ Martin to edit Helen’s episode, he could do it himself, sure, but he isn’t that desperate yet, and besides, he misses Martin. Hard not to. Jon’s realized ever since meeting Martin that he is absolute shit at making tea and he can’t go back to living like that.

And, yes, he has feelings for Martin, feelings that confuse and overwhelm him. Love isn’t generally his thing. It’s probably not love. Probably just odd infatuation due to close proximity and sharing something otherworldly and terrifying. 

Even if it were love, he’d only disappoint Martin. He’s quite aware that he’s not the easiest person in the world, and that coupled with the fact that he has no interest in sleeping with anyone makes him undesirable to most people. Martin’s likely blinded by the same strange infatuation he is. They’d be good friends under normal circumstances, maybe not even that.

And no, he’s not rationalizing to protect himself from whatever he may feel about the way Martin cut things off. It was the right thing to do, probably. 

These aren’t normal circumstances, though, and Jon starts to worry when Martin stops responding to texts altogether. He tries to know what the problem is--could be something with his mother, could be something worse, could be nothing at all. But the knowledge is...lost, somewhere, fogged and hard to reach. So clouded he understands none of it.

He texts Tim. Knows he and Martin get along well and figures maybe Tim has some insight, maybe Martin’s just decided he’s not speaking to Jon, but the conversation goes

_ Tim, have you heard anything from Martin? _

**no…?**

**wait no hey don’t just leave, you haven’t heard from him??**

**is he okay?**

_ If I knew, why on earth would I be asking you? Certainly not because of our overwhelmingly friendly rapport or mutual admiration. _ _   
_ **you’re such a prick**

**who the fuck knows how to spell rapport**

**bitch**

**tell marto to text me if you find out what’s up you’ve got me worried**

**sasha’s worried too**

_ Yes, sure, fine, top of my list of priorities. _

So there’s no easy out, and Jon’s going to have to do something his anxiety has always deeply despised him doing: going to someone’s home unsolicited. But he has legs and Martin’s address at a functioning GPS on his phone, and he’s worried, and it’s the right thing to do, so it’s what he does.

Martin doesn’t answer his door. Jon isn’t surprised, somehow, but he tries harder anyway, bangs open-palmed on the wood and says “Martin, I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m--people are worried.”

A text notification lights up his phone. From Martin. Two words.  _ I’m fine. _

“Please, just let me in for a moment, let’s talk, I’m--”

His phone buzzes again.  _ I’m fine, Jon. You can go. _

“I won’t,” Jon says, stubbornly. “I’ll sit here until you let me in.”

_ Please. _

“No. You still have a job, Martin, you signed a contract, if you’ll recall,” Jon says, maybe just to be shitty, sue him. He looks like a madman ex-boyfriend asshole having a one-sided conversation through a door in an apartment building and he resents Martin a little for putting him in this position instead of just opening the fucking door.

_ You can do a better job than me. You don’t need me. _

“You’re right,” Jon says, sitting down on the landing outside Martin’s door and leaning his head against it. “I don’t  _ need  _ you.” Typing bubbles flash up. Jon watches them for minutes, and then they disappear. No response from Martin. “I’d very much like to know you’re alright, though.”

Nothing. Radio silence. So Jon stands up, sighs, and experimentally tries the doorknob, just in case, and eerily, slowly, the door swings open, and Jon feels cold dread knot his stomach. He closes the door behind him. 

He imagined Martin’s flat as small, cluttered, warm. Not necessarily  _ well _ -decorated, but decorated, personalized. The sort of place you’d want to call home. Instead it feels...oddly large and very barren. No warmth hiding in any corners, just an odd, wan, cold light. 

Jon knocks twice on the closed bedroom door. His phone buzzes angrily.

_ I said go away, Jon _ .

“You did,” Jon says. 

_ Aren’t you supposed to be a good listener? _

“There’s a difference between listening and obeying,” Jon says. “I absolutely read and understood your message. I am, however, going to choose not to leave.”

_ I could call the police, you know. _

“You could,” Jon says. “That would be a lot of hassle, though. Might be a bit easier just to talk to me.”

No response. Jon sighs and opens the bedroom door. Martin’s lying in bed, facing away from the door, no light in the room save the dim glow from his phone. It’s an unseasonably warm day, but Martin’s wrapped in blankets, and Jon wonders, faintly, mildly idiotically, if he might just be ill, might just have a fever.

“What’s going on, Martin?” Jon asks, and he means it to be soft, doesn’t want to rip anything out of Martin, doesn’t want to betray his trust like that--if he even has Martin’s trust to begin with--but his frustration with the situation bubbles out, and the words coat the space between them like tar.

Martin doesn’t turn to him. “I just need to be alone,” he says, softly. He sounds more like a sad child than Jon’s ever heard him. “Can you just leave me alone?”

“Did something happen?”

“No, Jon, nothing  _ happened _ , nothing ever happens to me, that’s--” Martin rolls over, looks at Jon. His eyes look dead, distant, paler than before. “Please just go. I’m fine. It’s...it’s better like this.”

“No,” Jon says, sitting down on the edge of Martin’s bed. “Tell me what’s--”

“I don’t think you’d understand.”

“Then help me,” Jon says, and it’s both request and command. Coating the patient with iodine paint and prepping for surgery. It’s for Martin’s own good and he refuses to feel bad about it, at least not until later, the self-hatred and doubts that bubble up when he tries to force himself to sleep even though he’s not sure he can anymore.

“I’ve always  _ been _ alone,” Martin starts, cadence and tone similar to that of one of Jon’s vict--interviewees, and Jon rests his chin on his hand and watches Martin. Makes sure Martin knows he’s listening. 

A chill starts to run through his veins before Martin can continue. A pull in his guts to leave. To lock himself away. To not hurt Martin or anyone else ever again. Maybe that  _ would _ be better, now that he’s a monster. His mind races despite time seeming deathly slow.

He fights. He anchors himself on Martin. Martin, who has always been alone, but isn’t now. Martin, who finally gets to tell his story as his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! tune in next chapter for....even more sad Martin bullshit because we haven't had enough of that already.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> statement of Martin Blackwood regarding his lifelong relationship with loneliness and impermanence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just when you thought I couldn't project on Martin even harder. Anyway, this chapter is basically just That Part of 159 but......much worse because it's me writing it. I promise it's serving a purpose in the long run. Hope you enjoy!

This is the story Martin tells Jon, slowly, deliberately, as Jon gently pulls it out of him a little at a time:

Martin thinks of his life, sometimes, as a really impressive, but overhyped, magic trick. A disappearing act, specifically, and one where the fliers say  _ come watch this sad anxious fat dysphoric fuckup will himself into nonexistence _ and when the day of the performance finally comes, there’s no one in the audience.

More people saw him when he was a kid, he thinks, because he was cute. They all said he was  _ darling _ and  _ so quiet and considerate _ and  _ such a sweetheart _ . But he still got lost in grocery stores sometimes, and he was too anxious to ask anyone for help, so he just wandered invisibly under adults’ lines of sight searching for his mum. 

He’d always end up in the frozen section, shivering, defeated, that icy certainty that he was alone forever and no one was coming starting to gnaw away at the persistent hope that his mother was just right around the corner desperately searching for him.

Sometimes he thinks she tried to leave him, but that’s a stupid, paranoid thought. He always ended up back with her, her admonishing him endlessly for wandering off. He didn’t ever try to wander off, is the thing, it’s just sometimes he got lost in his mind and forgot to memorize the legs he was supposed to be following, like some fog creeping in through his ears and leaving him disoriented.

He was a cute kid, but the girls he always tried to play with and join in conversations with just talked over him like he wasn’t there. Asked him his name like they hadn’t been introduced before and didn’t even listen as he stuttered it out. Forgot him as soon as they weren’t looking at him anymore.

He started feeling like maybe he was the only thing in the world without any object permanence. Tried to test it by hiding in a closet, but his mum never noticed, never opened the door, no matter how much he rattled at it trying to get her attention. 

Stuck in that oddly cold, damp, lightless closet, he started thinking maybe he never existed to begin with. Maybe he was dead. Maybe he was a superhero who could turn invisible. Maybe no one cared about him.

He got too hungry, eventually, and let himself out. His mum said a surprised hello when he went into the kitchen with shaky hands and asked where he’d been, to which he’d answered  _ dunno, around _ in a small voice.

She was starting to be quite unwell at that point. He doesn’t blame her for not noticing him, she was caught up in her own pain, and it was really selfish of him to try and scare her, whether it worked or not. At least, that’s what he tells himself. He regrets a lot.

His lack of permanence never went away, though, ironically. He just couldn’t stick in people’s minds. A boy in Year 8 kissed him behind his school, one time, and Martin could almost see the boy forgetting everything about him the second their lips parted. The girls in the locker room all changed in different rows than him because they thought he was a lesbian, or because they didn’t want to look at his body, or--or  _ something _ , but they left him well alone and didn’t ever speak to or acknowledge him. No one ever wanted to be near him, no one wanted to remember him, so he stopped trying so hard and let himself fade into complete anonymity.

His walks home from school felt like they got longer every day. The fog hung lower over his shoulders, frigid and soaking into him, filling the empty spaces in his body until he didn’t really need to try and stuff them full of love anymore. 

He was alone. That was how it was. He only got more alone once he finally realized he wasn’t a girl and that he was the only one who cared about that at all. He shouldn’t complain about the fact that no one really even noticed when he started transitioning, but it would’ve been nice to feel like people looked at him long enough to see the changes, to appreciate that he was finally becoming what he wanted.

A lot of things would’ve been nice. It would’ve been nice if his mum had talked to him ever about anything, anything at all beyond basic curt pleasantries and logistical issues and the fact that he was, apparently, more like his father than he ever would’ve known or guessed.  _ You run away from your problems,  _ she’d said, when he’d tried to complain about how lonely he was since he dropped out of school, because he figured she was his mother and she was supposed to listen or sympathize.  _ You want to be alone _ .

He didn’t want to be alone when she finally moved into a home and he sat in the middle of his childhood house in his boxers and sobbed, the numb cold overflowing, making him feel like he was never going to be remotely known by anyone ever again, like he’d just have to get used to it.

He tried to convince himself he was better off alone. He really did. He followed stupid social media accounts that talked about how nice it was to be alone in your twenties, to really get to know  _ you _ , except, he did know  _ him _ , and he wasn’t a huge fan. 

Besides, he loved love. He watched proposal videos and romcoms and stupid Nicholas Sparks movies and cried at every single one, mind catching on how much he wanted to be touched, kissed, wanted,  _ remembered _ . Just once he wanted a morning-after text from his drunk bar hookups, or a call from the delivery guy who he gave his number because he called Martin cute, or--or anything. Anything at all.

But it was like he was still alone in the frozen section in that fucking grocery store, trying to catch someone’s attention, desperate for help and love but too  _ polite _ and  _ considerate _ and fucking  _ pushovery _ to scream for and demand it. Too full of self-loathing to actually believe he deserved it, even if he wasn’t.

No one knows him and no one wants to know him. That’s how he ends it, struggling on the verge of tears. No one wants to know him and he’s finally decided to finish the vanishing act and just let everyone forget him forever because there’s no point anymore.

He stops talking and swallows hard, hugging himself, sitting propped up on his pillows with his blankets wrapped around him, and Jon can feel the loneliness hanging heavy and cold in the air like thick fog. 

“Am I even real?” Martin asks, half-laughing in a completely humorless way, the first thing he’s said in a while that Jon hasn’t had to coax out of him. “I mean, do you even see me?”

“I see you, Martin,” Jon says, softly, and something close to a smile flickers over Martin’s face. “I see you.”

“I guess if anyone were going to, it’d be the guy who works for the eye god,” Martin says, softly, hugging his knees.

“I don’t think this is...normal,” Jon says, trying to choose his words carefully so he doesn’t just dump salt in Martin’s open wounds. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I should talk to someone--I do,” Martin says. “I mean, I’m on meds and I talk to someone and I still...just…”

“No, Martin, I mean I think it’s--I think it’s  _ them _ ,” Jon says, and even as he says it, he feels that cold, damp dread, that urge to save the world from himself and stay well away. “It, I guess. The Lonely.”

“Not everything is them,” Martin says, and he sounds so worn out and pained. “I think it’s just me. Look, Jon, you should go, it’s...I’ll be fine. You’ll be fine without me and I’ll be fine without anyone and everyone’ll just be. Fine.”

“Martin--”

“You’ll forget me. Everyone does.”

“I don’t want to,” Jon says, firmly, and Martin looks completely away from him, not even remotely chancing eye contact. “Look at me, please.” Martin does, reluctantly, though he can’t meet his eyes, just stares down at his neck. “I don’t want to forget you, and I think you’ve been well and truly fucked with by the Lonely. I don’t know why, but I think we can stop it.”

“It’s...it’s who I am.”

“Come back to my flat,” Jon says, and puts a hand up when Martin makes a noise like he’s going to protest. “Please. I don’t think it’s safe for you here.”

“Jon--”

“Don’t fight.”

“I don’t--”

“Martin, I need you there,” Jon says, and that’s stretching it, but he would really like to be the lighthouse beam leading Martin out of this dangerously thick haze. “Who else is going to clearly mark the Bad Doors and remove spiders from the kitchen?”

“And make you tea and tell you everything’s okay?” Martin asks, bitterly. “I know what I’m good for.”

Jon sputters for words to try and backpedal, to explain the gut feeling, to explain that he wants to save Martin from this because he’s a good person and he deserves someone to come and help him on fucking purpose, but he can’t make the words come out, so he leans forward and kisses Martin, whose eyes fly wide open in surprise.

Jon pulls back after a moment. “Please, Martin.”

“Okay,” Martin says, voice small.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your feedback keeps me going <3


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! So, uh, the last chapter was maybe rougher than I expected and I'm sorry for not more adequately warning y'all. I think this one is definitely less emotionally intense! And hopefully also good. Hope you enjoy!

Martin’s blood feels like it’s cold and thick and congealing into a gross, barely-flowing jelly in his veins, ears ringing with dull, old radio static. Jon pushes a mug of tea into his hands and sits down next to him, legs crossed, fully pointed towards him.

The warmth helps, a little. He feels a little less distant, a little more human. He takes a sip of the tea without thinking about it and resists the face he would like to make about how weak it is, and also the faint taste of dish soap in it. 

“Thanks,” he forces himself to say, because Jon won’t stop watching him, and he feels like he has to pretend to be a person, even if he’s not particularly connected to his body or anything else. Jon smiles, faintly, and Martin feels nothing about it. No jolt of affection, no particular desire to hold him, just that static, just that  _ fog _ .

“It’s not better, is it?” Jon asks, after a moment watching him, and Martin doesn’t have a chance to respond diplomatically before he sighs heavily. “I don’t know what to do, I--I don’t know how you stop them from--”

“It’s because it’s not them,” Martin says, tiredly, flatly. “I keep telling you, Jon, it’s--”

“You’re  _ wrong _ ,” Jon says, emphatically. “You’re wrong and--”

“Do you  _ know _ that? Or have you just decided that’s how things are?” The words taste a little bitter on Martin’s tongue, and he’s not even cognizant of why he wants to say them, other than wanting Jon to leave him alone so he can finally just fucking disappear.

“I--” Jon starts, then sighs again, blinking away from Martin and biting his lip. “I wish I could tell you I  _ know  _ for certain. It’s true I don’t want to believe that someone like you could just--could be forced to live like that for no reason. I am, however, fairly confident that I’m right.”

“Fine, then,” Martin says, shrugging. “Let’s say you’re right. How d’you make it  _ stop _ ? Because if--if there’s a way to not live like this--” His voice catches and breaks and he drains the nasty, soapy tea to keep himself from crying. Jon waits patiently for him to finish, never looking away from him. “I just...if it’s fixable, I…”

He doesn’t have an end to the sentence. He puts the mug down in his lap and looks away from Jon. 

“I don’t know,” Jon says. “I wish I did.”

“Can’t you know everything?” Martin asks, and Jon’s eyes flicker a little. Martin’s come to recognize that look as his lead-up to one of his scattered but impassioned one-man audience TED talks.

“Yes, in theory, but in practice, I’ve found knowing things about the entities to be...quite difficult, actually, which makes me wonder what the fucking  _ point _ is of all this--and can Elias see the entities? Does he have premium access to the Eye and I’m stuck on the free trial version? Why can’t I use this power to do anything  _ useful _ ?” Jon seems genuinely upset, and Martin feels a little pang of surprise burst in him even through all the numbness at his own lack of desire to comfort him. “I want to help you, Martin. I do. I just don’t know _ how _ , other than--” 

Jon trails off and sighs, eyes briefly leaving Martin.

“Please, feel free to leave me in suspense,” Martin says, dead-voiced. “I’m having a phenomenal time being potentially preyed on.”

“Other than  _ seeing _ you,” Jon finishes. “If I see you, if I  _ keep _ seeing you, you exist. You’re not alone. You can’t forget something you’re looking right at.”

“Are you sure about that?” Martin asks, then closes his eyes. “What color are my eyes.”

“Well, that’s not the same  _ thing _ , Martin, it’s--”

“No, tell me, if you can’t forget something you’re looking at.”

Martin can’t see him, obviously, but he thinks he hears a hint of a smile in Jon’s voice, even through the all-consuming numbing static in his head.

“Brown,” Jon says. “Light, soft brown. Left one’s a little greener.”

Martin opens his eyes. “You cheated, didn’t you. You used the Eye.”

“Is it so hard to believe I pay attention to you?” Jon asks, and he  _ is _ smiling, just a little.

“Yeah,” Martin says, shrugging. “I mean, yes. Categorically. That’s sort of the problem.”

“Look, maybe it won’t be an instant fix, but I’m not going to let…” Jon sighs, waves a hand in the general direction of Martin’s flat and the cold, blinding fog stuck in its walls, “ _ that... _ happen to you again.”

“Why do you care so much?”

“I need a producer,” Jon says, completely straight-faced. “You’ve heard me, I’m awful at being a host. And you saw what Helen really was when I didn’t, so...I value your insight.”

“Fine,” Martin sighs, though he actually does feel something at that, a little swell of pain that Jon didn’t say what Martin secretly hoped he would, something to the effect of  _ I’m in love with you _ or even the more distinctly Jon-esque  _ I’m not sure, but I think--well, I think maybe it’s possible the feelings I have for you-- _

“If I told you the full extent of the truth, you wouldn’t believe me,” Jon says, like he can hear Martin’s thoughts. Maybe he can. “You’d say I was lying to make you feel better, or you’d think it, even if you didn’t say it. Besides, you said you didn’t want to--well--so I’m respecting your boundaries. But yes, Martin, I do have feelings for you. And please, don’t ask me why. I don’t want to psychoanalyze myself, that never ends well.”

“Okay,” Martin says, voice small. “Uh. Well. Then. Should we--uh. I guess, should we try to--schedule? Someone? For the show?”

“You’re not well,” Jon says. “I’m not going to make you--”

“I’m fine,” Martin says, so startlingly convincing he almost believes it. Sometimes he forgets how easy it is to lie. “And besides, you won’t be well much longer if we don’t, right?”

“There’s still Helen.”

“Sure, but that’ll only last so long. Besides, are we...uh...are we sure Helen’s even believable enough to scare people?” Martin asks. “I mean...people’ll think we’re bullshitting. Too ridiculous to be scary.”

Jon hums, considering. “You might be right. But does horror have to be realistic? It’s not as if Melanie’s story was--”

“Yeah, but Melanie was at least a regular person telling a story. Helen...was...you know. ‘Person’ is uncharitable and also a stretch,” Martin says.

“I don’t think it matters, as long as it scares and unsettles them,” Jon says, and Martin feels odd about how impersonal the ‘them’ is. “Besides, Tim and Sasha seem to have thrown realism by the wayside. All it needs to do, for the Eye’s purposes, is generate fear.”

“Alright,” Martin says. “Whatever you say. You still need interviews to keep going, though.”

“Yes,” Jon says. “But you’re more--”

“I’m not,” Martin says. “Figuring out what the actual hell and fuck is going on with all this and what Elias’s motivations are is more important than me being literally supernaturally depressed.”

“Not to me,” Jon says, softly.

“Well, you’re not the only person in the world,” Martin says, and it comes out harsher than he intended. Jon opens and closes his mouth, and nods once.

“You’re right.”

Martin reaches over Jon and grabs his laptop, savoring the brief moment of self-forbidden physical contact. He does his best not to think about how Jon kissing him earlier was the closest he’s ever gotten to that one good movie kiss he always felt he’d been robbed of by his absurdly lonely life.

“Let’s choose one,” Martin says, opening the lid and turning the computer around for Jon to unlock. Jon turns it back to him, and Martin scans his emails, waiting for something to jump out at him.

“Anything?” Jon asks, raising an eyebrow.

Martin’s about to say that nothing looks too appealing when, unbidden, his fingers sort of drift across the touchpad and scroll directly to an email from an Annabelle Cane. No subject. Five words.  _ Hi Martin! We should talk.  _

Martin is absolutely, completely, perfectly sure his name isn’t anywhere on the site or even in the show notes yet, and even if it were, this is Jon’s email account, and Jon’s computer, and fear jolts through him.

He quickly slams the lid of the computer shut like a teenager trying to hide porn, which makes Jon nearly jump out of his skin.

“I’m fine, I--I’m fine,” Martin says, before Jon can ask, and reopens the computer. “Sorry. Don’t know what that was.” He deletes the email, then quickly scrolls and picks one at random. “There’s, uh...a lady with a wasp’s nest in her attic?”

“A--a--a  _ wasp’s nest _ ?”

“A spooky wasp’s nest?”

“I mean, sure, fine, I guess?” 

“Cool, I’ll email her back, she didn’t give a number,” Martin says.

“You sure you’re up to this?” Jon asks. “You seem…”

“What, strange? Cataclysmically bad?” Martin asks. “No shit.”

“I don’t want to...I just want to make sure--”

“It’s fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading as always <3  
> Hey, if any of you like jongerry (and I know a number of you do), I just started a new fic called 'the warning signs have all been bright and garish' that you should check out! I'm excited about it.   
> (And I mean, while I'm at shameless self-promotion, I do have several canon-timeline jonmartin fics as well.)

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Any and all feedback is appreciated.  
> Find me on tumblr @witnesstotheend


End file.
